 
# Myriah Fire

By

### Claudy Conn
Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Excerpts
Myriah Fire

By Claudy Conn

http://claudyconn.embarqspace.com

Copyright © 2011, 2012 by Claudy Conn at Smashwords

Edited by: Karen Babcock

Cover Artist: Kendra Egert

All rights reserved

Published in the United States of America

First edition published 2011

Second edition published 2012

July 2012

Names, characters, and events depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Excerpt of Miss Lacey

Copyright © 2020 by Claudy Conn

Excerpt of Lady X

### She lay staring in utter disbelief

### at the stranger she was still holding in her arms

Lantern in hand, Kit moved upstairs to his bedchamber. He was surprised the drapes in his room had been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed, setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped short.

Someone with long, flaming ringlets of hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his bed!

His first thought made him grin. His puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?

Drape mystery solved, and another one to contemplate.

"Now what to do with you, sweet," he murmured. Grinning, as he thought, _One shouldn't infringe on one's brother's property—but really, Billy, why the devil did you put her in_ my _bed?_ This question repeated itself, and still grinning, his lordship decided the only thing to do in such a situation was to wake her— _his_ _way!_

He nibbled at her delicate ears and placed a warm kiss on her throat. She groaned pleasurably. The sound stimulated him, and he leaned over her and took her mouth with his.

* * *

Myriah felt the sweet pressure, and her dream took on a new force, one that sent a fire bolt racing through her veins. Her arms went around the virile, muscular body, the source of her dream's acute burning.

All at once Myriah was awake. Unable to speak in spite of the fact that her lips were now quite free, she lay staring in utter disbelief at the stranger she was still holding in her arms. She lay for a moment in quiet astonishment, trying to collect her thoughts as she stared at the stranger's face.

He was smiling provocatively, and she noted the ruggedness of his features. Somehow, they seemed familiar. But he was a stranger nonetheless—and he was in her bed, taking advantage of her.

This notion was followed by the next, that being it was no doubt time to drop her arms and pull out of range, which she did speedily, wondering all the while how the deuce this situation had come to pass.

The gasp that had been stuck in her throat finally escaped. The words of outrage got mingled with fear, and she jumped up to a sitting position. Pulling the covers around herself, she pointed towards the door as she blubbered, "How dare you! Get out of my room!"

His voice was low, husky, and full with a sensually lined amusement. "Well, little bird, for one thing... this is _my room._ And for another, although I should be throwing _you_ out, I think I'll keep you in spite of your offense to my person."
Other books by Claudy Conn

Legend Series

Spellbound—Legend

Shee Willow—Legend

Trapped—Legend

Free Falling—Legend

Catch & Hold—Legend

Prince in the Mist (Novella)

Aaibhe—Shee Queen (Novelette)

Prince Prelude—Legend

~

Shadow Series

ShadowLove—Stalkers

ShadowHeart—Slayer

ShadowLife—Hybrid

~

Risqué Regencies

Oh, Cherry Ripe

Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

Taffeta & Hotspur

Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

Wildfire Kiss

Netherby Halls

After the Storm

~

Time Series

Through Time-Pursuit

Through Time-Whiplash

Through Time-Slamming

Through Time-Frankie

Through Time-Compulsion

~

DarkLove

~

Lady X

~

Netherby Halls

Hungry Moon Series

Hungry Moon-Quicksilver

Hungry Moon-Destiny

Hungry Moon-Jodi (coming in Aug)

### Dedication

This is for my dear friend and laughing buddy in the World of Make Believe,

Candice Stauffer
~ One ~

LONDON, 1813

CASCADING RINGLETS OF fire framed an elf-like countenance of peaches and cream. Dark brows and curling lashes accentuated the almond shape of the blue-green eyes. Champagne organza fell alluringly about a form as delicate as it was provocative, yet the owner of these enviable attributes gazed at her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass and sighed deeply.

A maid popped her linen-covered head into Lady Myriah's dressing room and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Tch tch, m'lady, here you be, idling your time away with your papa that anxious for you down in the ballroom! Why, gracious, the music is sweet to hear, and the dancers looking fine as five pence... and here you be, looking that sad! Why, it fair sets me in a huff, it does!" said the middle-aged woman, taking all the liberty that years of faithful service had won her.

Lady Myriah raised an eyebrow, and there was warning in her look though her tone was light. "Now, now, love, don't be hipped with me. 'T'would never do! I don't see why _I_ must go down just yet, especially when I feel disinclined." She stopped abruptly and noted the troubled look on the older woman's face. "Oh, very well, don't worry yourself over me, I'll go," Myriah said with one of her spontaneous smiles.

"Good girl—'tis that much those fine bucks below be wanting a look at yer sweet face!" her maid said, nodding and returning Myriah's smile.

"Nonsense, Nelly, love. They have seen it all this season and last! All right, all right, don't get yourself all puckered up again. I'm going!"

Myriah made her way down the red-carpeted, circular staircase, a slight frown between her eyes. The music floated up and enfolded her gently. Usually its mesmerizing effects lifted her spirits, but now she only sighed.

_Whatever is the matter?_ This one question haunted, irritated, and left her burdened. She did not know the answer, but she did know that she had no wish to hear the music she loved and no need to join the merrily waltzing ton in the ballroom below.

About to embark upon the glorious age of one and twenty, Myriah had already enjoyed two London Seasons and was about to take on her third. Yet the young lady was bored—bored and totally disenchanted with the beau monde, London, and all its frivolous activities.

She was Lady Myriah, the only child of Lord Whitney, and he was well able to indulge her many whims, and he had always seen fit to do so in the past. Lately, however, her worthy father had begun to lose patience with his headstrong darling. She lived in an age where women were supposed to be demure and submissive—which did not work for Myriah.

Beautiful, wealthy, and socially prominent, still Myriah was completely unattached and unspoken for. This last and somewhat astounding fact had not been achieved without some exertion on her part, to be sure, for Myriah had received no less than a dozen offers. Her papa and numerous interested relatives had spent much time and effort in their attempts to convince her that at least four of those offers were most exceptional, but Myriah had held out and refused them all. Perhaps it was because of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels—or her own imagination. She had often heard her aunts pompously deplore her father's leniency in allowing her to read such material. Perhaps it was Tom Moore's provocative poems or Sir Walter Scott's gallants. Regardless of the reason, by the time Myriah had reached her eighteenth year she had become most regrettably romantic. During an age when people of her class married for many excellent reasons, none of them having anything to do with love, she had the very odd notion that love was the most important prerequisite to matrimony. But, strangely, Myriah had never been in love.

She did not pretend her heart, which was as passionate as it was gregarious, had not yet been stirred. Several fine young bucks, in fact, had stirred it very well. However, it had not yet received its coup de grace. Thus it was that Myriah's heart remained intact, albeit restless and seemingly fickle.

Myriah's father, however, was not concerned with frivolous notions of romantic love; he had to contend with his sisters, who nagged him non-stop about her behavior. But though the dowagers frowned, though Lady Jersey chastised gently, though Myriah's relatives wagged their fingers, Lady Myriah's weighty family name and its accompanying fortune allowed much. So, in spite of her wayward nature, Myriah was as popular as ever with the fawning ton. Amused with her mild indiscretions, they called her 'naughty puss' and chuckled over her whimsies.

Myriah accepted their adoration as her due. Still, though she laughed at her aunts' admonishing, she was aware her father would not tolerate her caprices much longer. He told her he had to get her married and soon. If she didn't pick out a husband for herself, he was going to damn well do it for her!

Sighing at the thought she had little time before her father would press her to decide, Myriah gazed at the ballroom that lay before her gleaming with hundreds of candles in wall sconces and chandeliers. The marble floor could scarcely be seen as the waltzing feet of fashionable dancers glided around in time to the music.

Beautiful, delicate, and commanding in style, Myriah stood a moment at the entrance before she was surrounded and heralded into the room. Her name was on all their lips. Where had she been? Why hadn't she come sooner? Promise a dance, Myriah. One for me, Myriah!

Suddenly she felt suffocated. She broke loose with a laugh and caught her father's eye. He smiled warmly across at her, and she composed herself and blew him a gentle kiss.

"Sweet Myriah, have you a smile for me?" asked a quiet male voice.

She looked up into the face of Sir Roland Keyes, and a twinkle crept into her eyes. Now here was a diversion. "You, sir, have no need of such wispy things," she said coyly.

"Although I don't wish to declare you wrong, I need that and much more," he said, taking her hand and leading her firmly onto the dance floor. They moved in rhythm to the music of the violins, and many eyes glanced curiously at them.

Sir Roland, a bachelor of nine and twenty, had many attractive qualities, and more than one of Lady Myriah's suitors had noticed her apparent preference for the dratted fellow's company. Sir Roland's height was good, and his frame was such as to catch any maid's eye. His thick, curling locks were auburn with a hint of gold. He always seemed to entertain Lady Myriah with an adroitness that kept her amused.

As the waltz ended, Myriah gazed quizzically up into his bright eyes. "Sweet Myriah, shall we continue our play on the dance floor, or shall we seek privacy?" he teased, kissing the wrist of her gloved hand.

"I think, Sir Roland, we had better remain here. I have already found that playing alone with you can be quite dangerous!" countered the lady.

"Dangerous for whom, sweet beauty?"

She laughed amicably, for as always his forwardness excited her. He had skill, and there was no denying it.

"You know very well for whom! Never say you fear for yourself?" she said.

"For myself, never—ah, but for my heart, that is something altogether different. I have not attained my years and remained unshackled by toying with danger."

Her eyes flickered. "Well, there certainly is no danger of your becoming... how did you put it?... shackled to me? No, Sir Roland, you need have no fear on that score with me, as I have already told you I cannot marry you." The teasing quality of her voice had begun to ebb.

Sir Roland smiled and took her hand. Without speaking, he led her into a country dance. He was aware Myriah was attracted to him, and though he had not yet discovered the means to win her, he had no intention of giving the sport over. She was far too wealthy, and Sir Roland needed her money! His lands were heavily mortgaged, a state that had been achieved by his father's heavy gaming debts. He had tried everything else, even resorted to gaming himself with the little blunt he had left. Now, deeper in debt, he was desperate. Putting his estates in order had become all-important, and he needed an advantageous marriage to achieve this end.

If his financial affairs were not reason enough for wanting to marry Myriah, there was his desire for the chit. She teased him until he knew he must possess her—nay, not just teased but dallied with him, taunted him, and flirted with him outrageously. However, she had made it clear her virginity went only with marriage, and indeed a maid of her class could not be taken any other way.

They had been presented to each other just two months ago, and he knew she found him titillating, witty, and a stimulating companion. In turn he found her exquisite to behold, spoiled, wild, and irresistible. Though he knew neither she nor he were in love with one another, he meant to have her and her money. He looked long at her as these thoughts gravely carried his intent.

Myriah watched his face, and it occurred to her that her father might have his hopes around a match with Sir Roland. That was not what she wanted.

However, as Myriah and Roland met in the steps of the country dance, their eyes flirted, and it seemed to the onlookers that here was a match indeed.

Myriah's cheeks were flushed when the dance ended, and Sir Roland eyed her with concern. "You need air, love. Come, the night is too beautiful to ignore."

She hesitated and glanced doubtfully toward her father.

Sir Roland tugged gently at her arm, and with a shrug she relented, allowing him to open the French door and lead her into the garden. It was a delicious night, smelling of roses and fresh grass. She looked up at the black sky and saw the half-moon shining brightly down on her, its star companions twinkling gloriously. It was the sort of night poets and minstrels sang about, and Myriah breathed it in with pleasure. They walked without speaking, without touching, and she pulled her light shawl about her arms.

"Cold, love?" he inquired quietly, and there was a subtle shading in his words she chose to ignore.

"No," she replied and walked a bit away from him. He reached out and held her back. "Don't run away from me, Myriah. There is no need. If you wish, I'll take you back inside."

"No, I don't wish to go back."

"Then come walk with me," he said, linking her arm through his. He led her farther away from the house, down the path to a maze of neatly cut yews where a stone bench caught his eye. He coaxed her to sit down beside him. Suddenly, as if exasperated, he took Myriah by the shoulders and turned her face to him. "You want to be alone with me, Myriah. Why do you pretend otherwise? You are no silly miss declaring no when she means yes. 'Tis not your way."

She laughed good-naturedly. "You _are_ a rogue! Perhaps I _do_ want to be alone with you... perhaps I do not. I really don't know. But that doesn't signify at the moment, for apparently _I am alone_ with you!"

His laugh was low and soft as he put his strong arms around her and drew her to him. "Myriah, you feel so good in my arms..."

She knew what she was doing. She invited his caress, hoping he might be the one. He certainly excited her. Suddenly his mouth was hungrily on hers. She yielded to his lips, allowing him the kiss, tasting his tongue, wondering if he could be the one as she waited and hoped for thunder and lightning... hoped for bells... for music—for something. She sighed at length and pulled away.

"I can't marry you, Roland."

He laughed and shook his head. "Who is the rogue now, my dear?"

She returned his look, an impish light creeping into her eyes. "Now there is no use telling me that I must not kiss a man unless I mean to marry him, for that is simply stuff and nonsense—and so you know!"

"So _I_ do! But there are many who would not agree with such liberal thoughts!"

"That is because they are from another time and... and I think I am very different." She moved farther away and frowned sadly over the problem.

"Myriah, what is it you want?" he asked suddenly.

"I... I don't know. Evidently something other than what I have. I want to _feel._ But all I can feel is this awful restlessness. Lord... when I was a child, I was never this way. 'Tis just this past year. Here I am flaunting myself for the London bucks... and, Roland, I hate every minute of it!"

"Then end it—marry me." Roland turned her to face him again. "We shall deal together, you know that we shall. Myriah, there is so much more I want to show you."

"Oh, Roland, you don't need me to tell you what wild fun you are. And there is no gainsaying the fact that I like you better than any other man of my acquaintance, but I am not in love with you."

"I could teach you to be," he said, taking her into his arms and pressing her powerfully against him. She let him take her lips again, putting her arms about his neck, aroused by his hot kisses, aroused by her own needs. She returned his kiss, and her own was as urgent as his. She wanted this to be love, though she knew it was not.

"Egad!" reverberated a familiar voice from behind her.

Myriah jumped away from Roland's suddenly limp arms and looked at her father with dismay. The blood rushed quickly to her cheeks.

Sir Roland pulled himself to his full height and stood calmly facing Lord Whitney, whose expression gave every promise of trouble. His lordship shook one irate finger at Sir Roland.

"What the devil do you mean seducing my daughter in my own home?"

"You mistake, my lord. I have just asked Myriah to be my wife," Sir Roland offered quickly.

Myriah's cheeks lost their heightened color, and she opened her eyes wide at her father's change of expression. The ominous cloud that had hung about him had totally disappeared and been replaced with an open grin. She felt the warmth drain from her body, and coldness clutched at her.

"Eh?" barked his lordship, opening his blue eyes. "She has accepted you. Excellent—excellent! I knew she would. Told Emily, 'Mark me now, 'tis Roland she wants.' Very pleased indeed," her father rattled on.

"Papa... Papa... I have _not_ accepted Sir Roland's offer!"

"Nonsense! Saw you m'self," returned her father. Lady Myriah felt distinctly uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. How could she explain?

"Nevertheless, Papa, I did not accept his very flattering proposal."

"Well then, my girl, do so now!" her father commanded, the smile leaving his lips. "No chit of mine is going to give away her favors freely."

"Papa, do but listen—"

"Never mind trying to get around me this time. It won't fadge, girl. I saw you with my own eyes—giving Sir Roland that which should go only to your intended. It's clear I've let you run amuck. Well, I shan't let you ruin yourself. It's a husband you need, and Sir Roland here will fill the post nicely."

"Papa, please do not speak so to me. I am not going to marry Roland. You can scarcely expect me to marry a man simply because I have allowed him to _kiss_ me?"

"What?" shouted her distraught parent, quite on the verge of apoplexy.

"Well, really, Papa—"

"Listen to me, young lady," interjected her father, barely able to speak. "You are not only going to, marry Sir Roland... _I_ am going back into that ballroom with you both and making the announcement tonight! _Good God_ —next thing you'll be cradling a babe in your arms and telling me 'tis nothing at all! The very idea. Damnation, Myriah, I don't like admitting Emily was right, but you have proven her so. She warned me what you were headed for, and I refused to listen. Well, by damn, I have discovered the way of it before it was too late!"

Myriah's temper was as hot as her excitable father's. However, she had enough control left to contain her fire. She knew her father to be in the right of it, at least, _his_ right of it. From where he stood things must look bad, and when he was in a temper, there was no curbing his highhandedness. If she were to save the situation, she must act rationally. She calmed herself, knowing that to defy him now would not serve.

"Very well, Papa... if you will but give me a moment to tidy myself, I shall be very happy to accompany you to the ballroom and hear my engagement to Sir Roland announced."

Sir Roland's eyes flickered and flew to her face. What was the chit about? 'Twas not like her to concede so easily.

His lordship, on the other hand, thought too much of his authority over his daughter to question her sudden submission. He grunted and allowed her to pass.

Myriah raced up the back stairs and avoided the interested servants as she made her way to her room. She would have to act quickly or be undone, for once such an announcement was made her father would never make a retraction. Indeed, she felt _even she_ could not weather such a scandal.

"Papa, oh dear Papa," she said to herself sadly as she rushed about her room, flung off her elegant gown, and donned instead a smartly cut riding habit of dark blue velvet. Her father, beloved, doting, and kind, could be terribly steadfast in his decisions, especially when his sense of propriety had been ruffled. The only way to prevent doom was to absent herself. She flung two gowns into a small portmanteau, scurried about for her toiletries, pulled on her riding boots, and without another glance made her way, portmanteau in hand, to the back stairway.

The sounds of servants rushing about with food trays, wasping at each other in their haste, caused her to slow down cautiously. She must not be seen. Another movement brought her to the side door of their fashionable London town house, and a moment later she was breathing in the night air.

With a hurry born of need, she made the three blocks to the Whitney stables unseen, for there was but one thing she could do and one place she could go: to her grandfather at Guildford House.

The extensive Whitney stables loomed out of the darkness. It was late, well past ten, and she was certain most of the livery boys would be in bed. She pulled on the wide wooden latch, lifted it out of its catch, and swung the door gently open.

"Who's that?" came the gruff voice of a small man ambling toward her. The stables were dimly lit, and he pushed the candleholder in his hand toward the intruder's face.

"M'lady!" he cried out in surprise.

"Hush, Tabby," Myriah whispered, putting one gloved finger to her lips. "I need your help, old friend."

He squinted at her intently, his dark eyes noting her disheveled attire. He scratched his short gray hair, and his mouth moved dourly. "Eh, now, child, what ye got yeself into this time?"

"Oh, Tabby, there is no time to explain now. Just trust me and help me saddle my horse immediately, and, Tab, I will ride astride!"

"Hold now, m'girl," said the groom authoritatively. "You ain't thinking of riding out at this time of night?"

"Oh, Tabby, please—just saddle Silkie for me. We need to hurry. If we don't escape I shall be undone!"

There was no denying the note of desperation in his lady's voice. He had mounted Myriah on her first pony. He had served her as he had served and adored her mother, but he was not beneath putting a spoke in her wheel to save her from herself. He hesitated. "First you best tell me what's got you running."

"Papa means to marry me to Sir Roland... He is in a temper, Tabby, and there is no gainsaying him. I must go to Grandpapa."

"That won't serve, m'lady. It'll set up your father's bristles, it will."

"If you care for me, get my horse, Tab—please!" Then, with a bit more authority, she added, "Now—or I shall do it myself." Myriah was out of patience.

Tabson grumbled but disappeared into the darkness while Myriah fidgeted, fearing her father's explosion on the scene. Perhaps he would not realize for a time, but then he would send up a maid to fetch her, and then... her absence would be reported, and he would have to say she had gone to bed ill.

In what seemed interminable but was actually a short time, Tabby returned with his lady's horse and a saddled roan for himself.

"Tabby, what do you think you're doing?"

"I be going wit ye! Not the devil 'imself could stop me!" announced her groom as he watched her cinch her saddle in place and hoist herself nimbly onto her horse.

She laughed. "Now, Tabby, I have to tell you that you should fear my powers a bit more than the devil's." She laughed again and added, "I've a notion to let you come—so be it!"

She flung him a purse containing a tidy sum and led the way, cooing to her glossy, quiet stallion as she urged him onto the cobbled street. His ears flicked at the sound of her voice. A breeze caressed her cheeks, and Myriah laughed a wild, unbridled laugh. She was free—at least for the moment.
~ Two ~

AS THEY PICKED their way through the narrow streets toward Charing Cross, Myriah's eyes were bright with excitement. Even the thought that London at this time of night was not safe for a well-armed man, let alone a young woman, could not disturb her spirits.

"'Tis a wild ride we 'ave ahead of us, m'lady," Tabson said sourly.

"Ain't it grand, Tab? Imagine! Riding on the open road with not a soul to say us nay!"

"Humph... providing no bridle-cull spots us," returned the groom pessimistically.

"And if he does, we'll give him our trinkets and be on our way—'tis nothing!" said the lady, snapping her finger for emphasis and laughing at the thought of such an escapade.

A company of merry gentlemen stumbled out of a tavern singing quite loudly, out of tune and not at all concerned with this deficiency. They spotted Myriah and called out robustly for her to stop awhile. She chuckled but kept up her proud chin, urging her horse to move at a faster pace.

"Humph!" grumbled Tabby. At last they reached the toll-gate. After watching Tabby attend to the fee, Myriah gave her horse his head. They bounded forward in rhythm with one another, and Myriah's restlessness lost itself in speed. How she loved riding freely.

Tabby caught up after some effort and called to his mistress to slow her horse into a canter. "Don't be all hell and fire, m'lady... leastways not in the dark. Ye'll be planting yerself in some rut or other and giving that stallion ye say ye love so much a strained fetlock."

She laughed but did indeed ease her spirited horse into a slower gait. After the docile rides in Hyde Park, this carefree exercise created euphoria, banishing Myriah's concern.

Tabson felt it incumbent upon himself to bring his mistress to a sense of reality and dispel the sweetness of her fantasy with his gruff practicality. "'T'will not serve, m'lady, and well ye know."

"Hush, Tab, I won't have you growling at me." Myriah laughed.

"Growl, is it?" said the man, sticking out his lower lip. "And what will ye be calling it when yer papa bowls down upon us at Guildford House?"

Myriah sighed, and a slight crease marred her brow. "Oh dear... he will do so, I suppose."

"Hang me if he doesn't! Then what will ye say? Fine set-to there will be!"

"Oh, Tabby, I never thought of that. Papa will be angry to be sure, but he and grandpapa are good friends..."

"Humph! Lord Guildford will take your side in the matter, and it's plain as pikestaff yer papa is bound to take umbrage. A rare set-to there will be." grumbled the elderly man.

Myriah's frown deepened. "Oh, Tab, you are taking too doleful a look at the whole thing. I shall fix things up right and tight. See if I don't!"

To this her groom had little to say. However, he continued to mumble incoherently. Myriah lost her patience and moved her horse forward, leaving Tab some distance behind her.

When they reached Tunbridge Wells, the horses were watered and rested for a few minutes. Then once again they set south on the main pike. The adventure had lost its initial thrill for Myriah, and her mind was now busy with the problems facing her. There was Sir Roland, who surely would be upset. She had done him an injustice leaving as she had, allowing him to believe she had acquiesced to her father's outrageous plan. But then, she had not missed his expression, which told her he had not been completely fooled. _But Papa—_ there was no telling what _he_ might do, though she was fairly certain he would post down to her grandfather's in the morning... and then there would be a scene.

The road meandered past rich green farms and through meadowlands boasting of spring wildflowers, whose scent was carried on the growing breeze. The aroma infiltrated her senses, and for a moment she just breathed it in and sighed. Feeling rejuvenated, Myriah said, "Just look about at all this glory."

"Look at what, m'lady?" asked her astonished groom as he came up alongside her. "What can ye see in the darkness? 'Tis half-daft to try!"

"Oh, Tabby, don't vex me so. I can see... with my mind's eye, and I do so love Kent."

"Aye." Tabson agreed, relenting, for it had been his home as well, and he too was heartily sick of town life.

They maintained a steady pace for the next half hour without speaking. In her haste Myriah had neglected to put on a riding hat, and her fiery ringlets had tumbled down upon her shoulders. The breeze was stronger now and whipped the long, thick locks across her cheeks. With an exasperated sigh she reined in, pulled off a glove, and pinned back the wayward tresses.

Tabson looked up at the sky and mumbled a complaint that made Myriah raise her eyes heavenward. "Oh dear..."

Clouds had gathered and obscured the moon's glow, and a low mist had set in and seemed to be getting thicker. They had been on the road for nearly three hours, and Myriah knew their horses would soon need a proper rest.

"We are nearly there, are we not, Tabby?" She pulled a face and added, "This mist is dreadful. I can barely see ten feet in front of me."

"Humph," agreed her companion.

For the next thirty minutes they continued, the silence punctuated now and then by an unladylike exclamation when Myriah found herself off road and in the thicket. At last a fingerpost loomed up at the crossroad, and she rode up to the narrow white wood.

"Dymchurch three miles—oh, no, Tab," Myriah exclaimed. "We must have taken the wrong turnoff—we are heading in the wrong direction."

"Humph. Thought the air a bit too salty. Nothing for it, m'lady. We'll have to take the coast road. It cuts through the marshlands farther down, and we can follow the river a bit to Northiam."

"Oh, Tabby, I am so tired. We've been traveling for hours—how much longer do you think it's going to take?"

He scratched his head. "One... maybe two hours if this mist holds up."

"One or two hours! Why, it must be past two in the morning. _Good lord_."

"Best be moving on, m'lady. Dymchurch be no place for lingering at night."

"Why?" asked Myriah, surprised.

"Because it ain't!"

She was too weary to press him further and this time allowed him to lead the way.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the mist vanished, and only the dewy grass and moist bushes retained evidence of its earlier visitation. Low, flat, and marshy lands were dark and eerily foreboding in the blackness.

The road was lined by narrow dikes, glistening rills, and shadows that teased Myriah's imagination. She spurred her horse forward, passing her groom. A chill and strange sensation seized and swept through her. All at once, the eerie feeling made her pull her horse up short, sure that she had heard something...

Tabby halted his horse directly behind her and leaned forward in his saddle. "What be that?"

"Hush," commanded his mistress, listening intently.

Again the sound came to her ears, and this time she could identify it. A horse—it was the snort of a lone horse. She squinted through the darkness, zeroing in on a clump of evergreens and shaggy bushes. There—she saw it! The animal had shaken its head, and she caught the movement, following the line down the horse's nose to a dark clump at its hooves.

"Oh no, Tab!" Myriah uttered worriedly, her heart racing.

She couldn't really see, and yet instinct—a certain 'feeling'—told her someone lay injured beside the horse. Without another word she closed the distance to the object of her interest, slid off Silkie, and went down on her knees beside a young man.

His face was half-hidden by his arm, and his fair hair was free of the hat that had fallen beside his limp form. She pulled the heavy material of his riding coat away from his chest as she eased him onto his back. Tabby had by this time jumped off his old roan and was leaning over both her and the unconscious stranger. "He is hurt," she told him.

"I see that, m'lady—must have had a bad fall."

However, in an attempt to give the man some air by loosening his garments, Myriah's hand had come in contact with something warm and sticky. Horrified, she pulled her hand away. "Oh... oh, no... Tab... it's blood..."

Her groom knelt beside the unconscious stranger and examined him. In short order he found the wound through which the man seemed to be losing his life's blood; it was located in the young man's upper left arm.

"Tabby, I'll have to make a tourniquet. Fetch some water from the dike." She tore off a length of her muslin underskirt and handed it to him. When the groom returned, he placed the cool, wet cloth on the man's forehead while Myriah tore another strip of cloth, saying fretfully, "Oh, I do hope I can remember the knack of it. When Sir Thomas took a bullet last hunting season a tourniquet saved his life until the doctor was fetched, and I watched how it was done. Do hold his head up, Tabby... that's it," she said, slipping the material 'round his biceps above the wound.

"Now, Tabby, we'll need some of that heathenish brew you call whisky." She saw that he was about to deny the possession of any such thing and added, "'Tis not the time to tell me round tales. You have not been my dearest Tab all these years without my knowing you. Now do get it, Tab."

The groom grumbled heartily but a moment later produced a bottle of the questionable libation, which he put to the young man's pale lips. The fiery liquid proved to be potent indeed, for the lad coughed fitfully, and his eyes fluttered open. His lips parted, but he said nothing as he stared up into Myriah's face. Again the whisky was sent down his throat; again he coughed and squinted at her.

Myriah watched as he attempted to focus. He whispered hazily, "Flaming beauty..."

Myriah realized he was still dazed and took command of the situation. She grabbed the bottle from Tabby and forced more of the burning brew down the injured man's throat.

The young man suddenly tried to sit up. "I remember... my horse..."

"Right here. Your horse is right here. What has happened to you?"

He stared at her and smiled. "I took a fall and have no doubt landed myself in hell, beauty."

Myriah laughed out loud. "That, sir, is no compliment! I have always thought men were supposed to declare themselves in Heaven after being brought round by the attending heroine."

He looked up at her in puzzlement. He certainly was hazy, and he had suffered a loss of blood. Myriah frowned as she watched him trying to regain control of himself. His voice when it came was faint and gravely troubled.

"Heaven? But you don't look like an angel..."

Myriah again laughed and arched a friendly brow. "Indeed, 'tis a lamentable truth, I must say, but still shabby of you to remark on it!" She sighed mockingly. "Ah, but there is yet time to alter your hasty opinion once I put you into the hands of your local doctor."

"NO!" objected the young man, cutting her off and making a feeble attempt to raise himself up, only to collapse back down.

"But, sir," returned Myriah, prohibiting such action with a firm hand on his chest, "you have sustained a nasty wound, and it must be attended to at once by someone far more experienced than I."

"Please, ma'am... if you... would be so good—just help me get to my feet?"

"On no account," Myriah replied authoritatively.

"She-devil!" the young man muttered.

"Have a care, my friend," Myriah teased, rallying him as best she could, for he had her worried. He looked so helpless. "I may end by sending for that doctor after all." She sighed and put a hand over his mouth, preventing any further speech. "Evidently you have some aversion to the physician in question for reasons not yet known to me. Very well then. Where shall we take you? You cannot continue to lie here in my lap. I am getting most frightfully stiff."

He grinned beneath her palm, and she lifted it from his mouth to allow him speech.

"Wimborne Towers—just up the pike to River Road."

"Right then, Wimborne Towers it is." She turned and called sweetly to her horse. The black stallion snorted but was in tune to the sound of his mistress's voice. "It will be much easier for us to get you mounted on my horse, who has a very nice trick."

Silkie nudged her, and she told him firmly, "Down, darlin', that's my love." She clucked encouragement at the handsome animal, watching as he went down first on his fores and then completely. She was proud of him and herself for having taught him the useful ploy. With Tabby's assistance she got the wounded man to his feet and positioned him on the horse. Myriah then cooed softly to the stallion, bringing him back up.

Her thighs ached from the night's riding, the small of her back felt pinched, and her head was throbbing unmercifully. This was no longer an adventure but a grueling, uncomfortable, mind-racking evening. She steadied herself before mounting the man's horse still grazing by the side of the road and allowed Tabby to lead Silkie while she brought up the rear.

Before long they had reached the fingerpost that turned them onto the River Road. This led through a stretch of flatland, broken only by a scattering of low, budding trees. It sloped gently upwards and passed a wooded cluster of birch and evergreens that opened into what obviously had once been a magnificent estate park.

Even in the darkness of night, Myriah was impressed with the estate's layout and with the huge Tudor home that beckoned. Concern for the young man lest he fall off her horse kept Myriah busy watching him, yet even so she felt that the house and the grounds must have once been quite regal, and not so very long ago.

After what seemed an interminable time they reached the covered portico of the mansion. There was nothing for it but to leave the horses standing as they assisted the young man off Silkie and brought him to the front double doors.

He leaned heavily on Tabby, who had little to say throughout these proceedings, while Myriah banged hard with the knocker.

The young man coughed convulsively. Myriah, worried lest the bleeding begin again, tried to hush him, but he pulled at a chain at his waist and produced a large brass key. "No—no servants," he managed to advise them in a hoarse voice.

She exclaimed impatiently as she took the key and worked it in its housing.

She pushed the heavy doors open. After they helped the young man inside, Tabby closed the doors at his back.

"Candles on the table..." the lad told Tabby, who went and lit one in its lantern-styled container.

The wounded man motioned the way to the second floor, and after some exertion they deposited him on his bed. He closed his eyes and lay back. Myriah winced, for she could read the pain in his face. She placed the candle lantern on his nightstand.

Tabby removed the young man's torn and dirty coat and undid his waistcoat. The white linen shirt was already destroyed, and so he made short work of it as he tore it off.

Myriah gasped at the blood-soaked muslin she had wrapped around his wound. "Good God, sir... you may be pluck to the backbone or a simpleton—I don't care which, for _I_ shan't let you go on without medical assistance any longer."

"No doctor... please... get me Fletcher."

"Fletcher? Faith, who is Fletcher?"

"My brother's groom."

"You don't need a groom. You are not a horse. You need a doctor!"

"They fought together in Spain, and he has seen and attended a great many gunshot wounds... he'll able to..."

"Very well then, where is he?" asked Myriah, presently beside herself. This young man would die from loss of blood and infection if something wasn't done soon.

"His room—above... our stables," the lad said, looking as though he were about to pass out.

"Tabby," Myriah said, turning round at once, "please if you would be so kind, find this Fletcher. Have him come up at once. And bring some clean water and whatever cloth you can drum up. Thank you, Tabby."

"Yes, m'lady."

Myriah sank down upon a nearby chair and allowed herself a moment to study the stranger, noting for the first time that he was quite young, in all probability not much older than herself.

His cheeks were ashen and his brow furrowed with the etchings of pain. His face was angular, his nose straight, his lips thin and well defined. He was, even with his mouth distorted by quiet suffering, very attractive. His hair was a bit longer than neck length and spread behind his head around the pillow. The candlelight displayed the streaks of gold in his hair that framed a face both youthful and good looking.

"Faith, Myriah," she said ruefully to herself, "now you've gone and done it. Here it is no less than five in the morning, and where are you? At your grandpapa's, safe and warm, cozily tucked into your bed? Oh, no! Not you, Myriah! Here you sit on a hard chair without the benefit of a fire, attending a man whose fame has bought him a bullet... and you don't even know his name!"
~ Three ~

A FEW MOMENTS LATER Myriah was poking about at the fireplace grate in an attempt to kindle a blaze. At last she was rewarded with a spark of light, and as she put a weary hand over her head, she gave silent thanks. The hard, heavy strides of a man's boots taking the stairs came to her ears, and she waited and stared at the open doorway.

An elderly man, of average height and substantial girth, dressed in disheveled woolens, appeared on the scene. He shook his head, and a long, straight lock of silky white hair fell across his eyes. He glanced darkly at Myriah, strode heavily into the room, and stopped beside the young man's bed.

"Wisht, wisht, m'lad! Whet they doon ta yah, m'bonnie?" the newcomer asked, bending low over the wound and examining it carefully. "Ah, the divils! But ye would goa—ye wouldna listen to nobbut yeself! Ah, Maister William, we be in for it now."

"Can you help him, sir?" asked Myriah hopefully.

He didn't bother to glance at her but continued studying the bullet hole.

Tabson returned with an iron pot filled with water, and Myriah motioned for him to set it near the fire. She turned to find Fletcher pouring brandy over the open wound.

His master groaned and gripped his sheets.

"Aye, lad... 'tis gonna get worse, though thank the saints it ain't too deep. 'Ere now, m'bonnie, drink up," he said as he poured some of the brandy down his master's throat.

Fletcher then sidled to the fire and began heating the sharp, thin blade and pinchers he had produced from his pocket. This done he returned to Master William and motioned for Tabson to hold him steady. Once again the fiery alcohol was poured over the wound, and then knife met with flesh.

Master William stiffened with pain, and Myriah silently prayed that he would pass out. However, it was not until the pinchers were inserted into the flesh that the lad was given a reprieve. The mind has a way of doing its own battle with the brave. The lad's mind detached itself from the proceedings, as though enough was enough—and he was spared a few moments of torture.

Myriah was beginning to feel queasy, but she continued to watch. Within a moment the offending bullet was produced and removed. The torn skin was cleaned and cauterized before the bandages were wrapped around the battered arm.

Myriah felt as though a vise had been squeezing her insides. Her back was tense, and her hands were white with clenching at her fingers. She thought it was a wonder she hadn't bitten her nails off.

Fletcher covered his master with a clean sheet and blanket, rolled up the bloodied linen, and threw it onto the fire. He turned to Myriah, his features inscrutable. "He'll wake soon, and more than likely he'll fever up. You best get some rest afore that happens."

"Will he be all right?" Myriah asked anxiously.

"Thank'ee, ma'am, that he will wit' God's 'elp. Yer man can bed doon in m'quarters—I've got plenty of room—and ye might find 'is lordship's room to yer liking. It be jest across the hall."

His lordship? Myriah wondered but said, "Thank you, Fletcher. I shall relieve you in a few hours." She fetched another candle in its holder and lit it before venturing into the hallway, where Fletcher pointed out the room she was to occupy. She smiled at the elderly groom and went inside.

Once there, she set the candle down and looked around at what was obviously a bachelor's chambers. Was this William's father's room? If so, where then was he?

She removed her jacket and boots, throwing them negligently onto a nearby chair, blew out her candle, and dropped across the bed. A moment later she was asleep.

* * *

With a start Myriah brought up her head. The room was still clothed in darkness, yet a slit between the drapes allowed the morning's gray light to filter through. The strangeness of her surroundings puzzled her a moment; then as she felt the dawning of memory, a groan escaped her lips.

She pushed herself up and into a sitting position and became aware of the fact that her body was making known its very strenuous objections regarding her latest escapade. She felt as though she had been brutally beaten, and a longing to shirk her promise and return to sleep did private battle with her conscience. Alas, a conscience is a troublesome thing.

Berating herself for a fool, Myriah rose from the bed and attempted to stretch. With a groan she pulled on her boots and jacket and then encountered yet another problem. When she attempted to take her first step, she found her legs objects unto themselves. _Hold_ , they cried. _Did you, Myriah Whitney, not subject us to cruel and flagrant misuse?_ The verdict came in guilty, and Myriah's hands went in sympathy and support to her thighs as she crossed the hall to William Wimborne's room.

This feat accomplished (Myriah felt it deserved applause), she took a moment's respite and leaned against the open door. Bolstering her courage, she walked stiffly toward Fletcher, who offended her sense of justice by looking wondrously comfortable and deeply asleep on the Queen Anne chair beside his master's bed.

She gave the groom a rather rough shake, and he grumbled into consciousness. "Fletcher, you are relieved. How did he sleep?"

"Restless he was—gave him a bit of laudanum." He stood, stretched, and added, "He should sleep peaceful now."

"Thank you." Myriah sighed, wondering why she had appointed herself the young man's nursemaid.

Fletcher shuffled out of the room, turned to advise her that he would have Cook send up breakfast, and warned her not to mention the cause of his master's indisposition to the servant.

"Cook?" asked Myriah. "Then there are some servants here after all?"

"Jest be Cook and her two lads. They comes days, she cooks, they cleans, tends to various things, and then they are off," Fletcher said and turned abruptly to head out.

Myriah sucked in air, poured some water into the washbasin, and began setting herself to rights. She would have to ask Tabby to bring her overnight portmanteau to her, for young Wimborne's comb was nowhere to be found. "Oh, well," she mumbled aloud as she sank into the Queen Anne chair and gazed ruefully at the patient. Now in the full daylight she could see his hair was dark blonde, streaked with gold. His face had the appearance of a boy—just a boy.

There was a knock at the door, and a young, freckle-faced urchin appeared with a tray. "I brung your vittles," said the wide-eyed boy as he placed the tray on a nearby table. "Fletcher—well... he said... young master took sick and you be tending him."

"Thank you," Myriah said, dismissing the curious boy with a gentle but firm look.

She swallowed the tea and devoured the buns in a trice, all too aware that some of her aches were due to hunger.

Boredom set in quickly, and she moved toward the long, diamond-paned window overlooking the estate grounds. The estate was obviously suffering from neglect. The lawns were overgrown, the flowerbeds needed weeding, bushes sadly wanted pruning, and the stables were in dismal need of paint. It would appear the Wimbornes had fallen upon hard times.

Surely this had once been an elegant home, for the furniture was exquisite, though the material could stand a good cleaning.

A sound from the bed made her look around, and she discovered her patient had tossed off his covers. She hurriedly soaked some cloth and began pressing it to his head, bringing up the blanket to cover his exposed chest.

For the next two hours he tossed, fretted, and called for 'Kit.' It was all she could do to keep him from tearing off the bandages. At last Tabson came in.

"I've put your bag in the room you took last night, m'lady—thought ye might be needing it."

"Oh, Tab, thank you—I do. But would you stay here with him awhile? He is burning up, and I want to go to the kitchen and prepare a tisane to ease the fever."

"Yes, m'lady."

She went downstairs and cautiously made her way to the kitchen. Once there she found a pleasant, round-faced woman scurrying about with pots and pans and giving orders to her sons.

"Excuse me?" Myriah called attention to herself.

The woman was startled into a gasp, but then simply nodded a silent greeting and waited, obviously uncertain what to make of the young woman before her.

"I am so sorry to interrupt your work. I am Miss..." Myriah hesitated to give away her identity and came up with, "Miss White. I... I was on my way to my family in Dover when we lost our way. I remembered that my cousin's home was nearby, and so we stopped here for a night's shelter. Apparently Cousin William"—she hurriedly adopted him—"has a fever, and so my groom and I will remain until he is feeling more the thing. I do hope you will not be put out too unduly by our sudden descent upon you."

Cook appeared to like Myriah's manners, for she smiled readily and replied she was happy her master had someone to look after him.

Myriah then asked to be given the herbs she needed for the tisane. It didn't take long to stir and prepare the brew, and soon Myriah was back in Wimborne's bedchamber.

Tabby held him up while Myriah attempted to get the potion into him. This accomplished, Tab was dismissed, and Myriah continued applying a cloth soaked in rosewater to his head. He continued to toss for a few moments, rambling incoherent words, and then he drifted off.

A light lunch was sent up to Myriah, and Fletcher attempted to relieve her, but she would have none of it. For some odd reason she felt _she_ had to care for her 'new charge'.

At length his sleep seemed more relaxed, and then suddenly she saw him open his eyes. She was beside him instantly. He scanned her face and smiled feebly as his memory returned, and then his lids closed and he seemed to sleep again.

For an hour Myriah watched the changes of expressions flit over his face while he slept. She was fairly certain he was out of the woods and that the fever had broken when all at once he began to start tossing again and fretfully calling for Kit.

Who the devil was Kit, she wondered as she soothed his agitation. His forehead was on fire, and Myriah had a sudden urge to cry. He couldn't die, she couldn't let him die, but he had lost so much blood! Again she wiped away the sweat from his face, neck, and chest. She cooled his forehead with rosewater, and she prayed.

When he seemed to relax and began sleeping peacefully, Myriah wrung her hands, hoping this was a good sign as she sank down on her chair. Weary with physical discomfort and mental stress, she closed her eyes, laid her head back, and tried to compose her faculties.

"I may be in Hell, but I have changed my mind— _you_ are an angel!" Wimborne croaked out, startling her forward.

"Mr. Wimborne!" Myriah exclaimed, going to take his hand. "Oh, oh, you do look better—not well, but ever so much better."

"Thanks to you." He grinned boyishly at her.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. "Oh, no. Thanks to your good man, Fletcher. He has a wondrous skill with a knife. But you lie still now... I shall be back in a moment. What you need now is some gruel."

"No," said the man, horrified.

"Well, not perhaps right away. First I will bring you some tea and toast," she said, taking pity and hurrying out of the room.

Sometime later, having plied her patient with buttered toast and tea, Myriah watched him fall off to sleep, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had herself only dozed for a few minutes when a knocking at the open door roused her and she found Fletcher in its frame ready to relieve her.

She smiled and dragged herself to her bedchamber, threw off her clothes, and sank naked beneath the satin coverlets, where she fell quickly off to sleep.

Dreams plagued her peace. They were muddled, lost in time, sending images to taunt and harass her. Sir Roland was there; he grabbed her and held her, and all she wanted to do was run...

* * *

Kit Wimborne, sixth Viscount of Wimborne Towers, had arrived at his home well after dinner to find it shrouded in darkness. He unsaddled his horse himself in the courtyard rather than wake his elderly groom and set the horse into the pasture. He was tired from the day's work and thinking about the future.

He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it on the wall rack just inside the kitchen entrance before he poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it.

Lantern in hand, he moved upstairs to his bedchamber. He was surprised that the drapes in his room had been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed, setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped short.

Someone with long, flaming ringlets of hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his bed!

His first thought made him grin. His puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?

Drape mystery solved, and another one to contemplate... in a bit, but first...?

He sat beside the woman just as she rolled over. He got a full view of her face and a slight view of her full and luscious breasts.

Damn! He gently and deftly pulled away the thick, fiery tresses from their owner's face and shoulders to have a better look at her face.

The object of these ministrations sighed contentedly as he sucked in air and felt a moment's enchantment. She was ravishing, and he released a soft whistle.

He pulled a rueful grin as he thought his brother had certainly won himself a worthy piece of muslin—worthy a full grown and experienced man... such as himself.

His decision to have a better and more detailed look at the creature lying unsuspectingly in his bed was a natural occurrence, given the circumstances, believing as he did that she had been paid for her night's services.

Again, his hands worked dexterously as he removed the quilted covering from the beauty's tantalizing form. His eyes wandered slowly and appreciatively over her lush curves and her tantalizing nipples. Then she moaned and turned once more onto her stomach and gave him a view of her exquisite back.

She shivered suddenly, and his lordship sought to remove her discomfort by covering her—with his own naked body. He put his arm across her and leaned over her lithe form, a sudden spark reviving his blood and chasing away all thought of sleep.

"Now what to do with you, sweet," he murmured. Grinning, he thought, _One shouldn't infringe on one's brother's property—but really, Billy, why the devil did you put her in_ my _bed?_ This question repeated itself, and still grinning, his lordship decided the only thing to do in such a situation was to wake her— _his_ _way!_

His fingers moved sensuously as they stroked her soft, bare arms. He shifted position so he was stretched right up against her silky, naked body, and his hard dick began to dance and play...

He nibbled at her delicate ears and placed a warm kiss on her throat. She groaned pleasurably. The sound stimulated him, and one masculine calf straddled her outstretched legs as he leaned over her and took her mouth with his.

* * *

Myriah felt the sweet pressure, and her dream took on a new force, one that sent a fire bolt racing through her veins. Her arms went around the virile, muscular body, the source of her dream's acute burning. Dreaming... she had to be dreaming—how else would she be holding a rock-hard, muscular body in her arms?

All at once Myriah was awake. Unable to speak in spite of the fact that her lips were now quite free, she lay staring in utter disbelief at the stranger she was still holding in her arms. She lay for a moment in quiet astonishment, trying to collect her thoughts as she stared at the stranger's face.

He was smiling provocatively, and she noted the ruggedness of his features. Somehow, they seemed familiar. But he was a stranger nonetheless—and he was in her bed, taking advantage of her.

This notion was followed by the next, that being it was no doubt time to drop her arms and pull out of range, which she did speedily, wondering all the while how the deuce this situation had come to pass.

Her blue-green eyes glittered angrily as she sought words; a scream seeded itself in her throat and surely would have been emitted had not the stranger had the foresight to put his powerful hand over her parting lips.

This quite naturally did little to inspire trust, and yet his friendly grin seemed to suggest he meant no harm. "Hush there, sweetings... I don't mean to take any more than you are willing to give," said the handsome man above her.

Outrage surged through Myriah, and she managed to work the skin between his thumb and forefinger into her dainty mouth, whereupon she latched her teeth onto her target and bit down hard. This produced the required result: he jumped away. With an oath, he was out of the bed and standing in all his glory—and that glory was still at full mast.

Myriah could not help but stare. It was the first time she had ever actually seen a man's cock. She and her friends had often discussed and giggled about sex and the naked stone statues they had secretly glanced at, but this... this, she found momentarily diverting.

His lordship was not diverted or self-conscious about his state of undress. As he sucked his wounded finger, he stared hard at her, noting that she seemed transfixed on his privates.

The gasp that had been stuck in her throat finally escaped. The words of outrage got mingled with fear, and she jumped up to a sitting position. Pulling the covers around herself, she pointed towards the door as she blubbered, "How dare you! Get out of my room!"

His voice was low, husky, and full with a sensually lined amusement. "Well, little bird, for one thing... this is _my room._ And for another, although I should be throwing _you_ out, I think I'll keep you in spite of your offense to my person."

"Keep me? Keep me!" Myriah couldn't understand what was happening and who this could possibly be.

"Aye then, my brother no doubt brought you home with him, but since he has set you up in my bed, I suppose he means to share."

"Your brother... share...?" Myriah put up her chin. "For your information, I brought your brother home, and he was in a very bad way—wounded, in fact—and my groom, your Fletcher, and I have been tending to him!"

All at once, the muscular and tall gentleman frowned darkly. He crossed the room and retrieved a long black brocade dressing gown, threw it on, and demanded of her, "Now... explain yourself!"

"Explain myself?"

"My brother, you say..." he returned impatiently.

Myriah could not help but note the size and breadth of the man and the fact that he was extraordinarily gorgeous, with his dark blonde hair and glittering gray eyes.

"Yes, we found him by the side of the road. He had been shot... we brought him here..."

He was out of the room like a charging bull, taking long, hard strides. Myriah shot out of bed and dug in her portmanteau for the sky-blue velvet robe she had packed. She quickly slid into it and tied it at her small waist before barefoot she padded after him.

* * *

Lord Wimborne stood for a moment over his brother's still form. William looked absurdly youthful, dangerously pale, and helpless. His lordship decided not to wake him but instead brushed a stray lock of hair from his brother's forehead. Billy's eyes flashed open.

"Kit!" whispered young Wimborne as though he were viewing a god.

"Young fool—they tell me you caught a bullet," Lord Wimborne said gravely.

"Devil is in it that I did—but there was nothing for it, Kit... had to go out... for I got word..."

"Never mind that now. We'll talk about it later. I would like to know something about the chit in my bed... if you feel up to talking."

"Ah, you've seen the she-devil, have you?"

Lord Wimborne laughed. "I have."

* * *

"She-devil?" Myriah almost snorted as she came to stand beside Billy's bed and touch his forehead. "Now that is a fine introduction to your brother."

"She makes me eat gruel," Billy Wimborne explained to his older brother.

"For your own good." Myriah smiled sweetly. "And besides, I put a touch of honey in it, didn't I?"

"Still not palatable, and I tell you what, I want eggs and ham tomorrow morning."

"Eggs and ham." Myriah shook her head and touched his arm. "Well, we shall see... I will leave you to your brother."

Billy reached out and grabbed her hand. "No need for you to leave."

"And still, I think, you need some moments with your brother." She turned to his lordship and eyed him darkly as though silently berating him for their earlier encounter. "Do not tire him."

* * *

His lordship watched the young woman's retreating form. She was an exquisite beauty, and her fiery hair against the blue velvet caught and riveted the imagination.

"Now tell me... who the devil is she?"

Billy suddenly realized he had not yet asked Myriah her name. He had been teasing her all day, and they had bantered back and forth, but all he knew was that her groom, Tabby, called her Miss Myriah. He told his brother this with a heavy sigh, beginning to feel fatigued once more.

"And that is it? You didn't ask her where she was from, or what she was doing on the Pike Road at that hour, or what her family name is and how she can stay on here without sending word to someone?"

"No... very ill-mannered of me, I know... but... wasn't feeling quite the thing..."

Kit realized at once that he had over-taxed his young brother. He touched Billy's arm, saying, "There... go to sleep. We will get this all sorted out in the morning."

"Aye, but Kit... Fletcher gave her your room." Billy grinned mischievously.

"I have already discovered that fact."

Dawning lit in Billy's gray eyes so much like his brother's. "Oh! So that is it!" He laughed, coughed, and laughed some more.

"Good night, scamp," Kit threw over his shoulder as he made his way to his bedroom.

He encountered the lady in question in the long hallway. She had her bag and had made her way down the hall to open a door and sniff. She turned to him and said stiffly, "It smells dusty, but I'll deal with that in the morning." A nod of her head and she was in the room, closing the door, which he then heard bolted.

An involuntary smile crept over his face.

* * *

"You look different, you do," Billy offered as Myriah tried feeding him some gruel, only to have it pushed away.

"I look different because, my odious friend, I have changed my clothing and brushed my hair."

"Well, it's about time," said her patient.

Her blue-green eyes glared. "Oooh, but I think you deserve this gruel!" She made another attempt to put the spoon of the warm meal to his lips.

"Damnation, girl!" the young man said with as much authority as he could muster under the circumstances. "'Tis food I need— _not gruel_."

"And food is what you shall get once you have shown me you can hold the gruel down."

" _I_ _am_ in Hell, and you _are a_ _she-devil!_ "

"Really, Mr. Wimborne, earlier this morning you declared me an angel."

"I was delirious, for you ain't an angel but a wicked she-devil bent on having her own way. Knew it the moment I laid eyes on your flaming hair!" retorted Mr. Wimborne.

"Aha! Not only are you an adventurer, you are an ingrate as well." Myriah teased, pleased to see him in such spirits.

He smiled feebly, but fatigue prevented him from further repartee, and he settled back against his pillows.

Myriah observed this and refrained from teasing him. Instead, she said softly, "Come then... have a spoonful."

He groaned but did in fact allow himself to be fed, making an awful face as he swallowed the food.

Tabson appeared with a tray and set it on a nearby table before eyeing his mistress.

"Thank you, Tabby." She knew what he wanted—he wanted to leave and hurry to her grandfather's and avoid any further trouble. He had already lectured her earlier that morning. She, however, had other ideas.

She tried to ply her patient with another spoon, but he waved a hand at her. "Go away!"

She put the bowl down on the nightstand and propped up his pillows. He eyed her suspiciously. "What are you doing now?"

"Making you more comfortable so you will finish your gruel."

"No," said her patient.

"No?" She eyed him warningly. She brought another spoon to his mouth and was surprised when he took it without a fight. "That's it, Mr. Wimborne... that's the ticket."

"Billy to you... after all, you cannot be shoving that slovenly mush into m'mouth and calling me, Mr. Wimborne!" He smiled broadly. "'Tis ridiculous, and I'll not call you anything but she-devil."

She wedged another spoonful into the poor man's mouth and grinned. "My name, sir, is Myriah—Myriah White." She felt a twinge of guilt; she didn't want to fib to him, but she had to keep up the pretense.

"Myriah, you know, suits you. You look like a Myriah."

She smiled, thinking he was giving her a compliment, and then he threw in, "'Tis but another name for she-devil after all!"

She laughed and shoved another spoonful into his open mouth. However, that was the last he would take, and he pointed to her tray of food. "What do you have?"

She sighed and went to her own platter of sirloin and roast potatoes. He watched her pick at her meal and muttered something incoherent. Myriah laughed and brought her platter to the bed, whereupon the two shared the single meal. Each seemed quite pleased with the other, and Myriah left him resting peacefully, promising to return with tea and biscuits later in the day.

Below stairs, curiosity drew her to an open door just off the central hall, and she entered cautiously to find a well-stocked library. However, what captured her attention was the far wall, which was covered with portraits. They appeared to be family portraits. She lit a candle since the room was shrouded in the darkness of the day. It was drizzling outside, and although the library housed a wonderful panoramic window, there wasn't much light to be had.

With the candle sconce in hand she went to the portraits and held it high to have a good look at one in particular of a young lad and a man. Here was William Wimborne and his lordship, and the painting must have been commissioned quite a few years ago.

Billy looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen in the portrait, and his lordship looked fascinating and happier than when she had met him. She put a finger to her lips as she studied the painting. His lordship's honey-colored hair had been very accurately captured... as had been the strong line of his jaw.

She heard someone behind her and spun around to stare up at Lord Kit Wimborne. The air she had been breathing suddenly burned in her throat. He was devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she felt like an awkward schoolgirl. He wore a riding jacket of dark blue, cream-colored breeches, and high black boots polished to a fine sheen. His honey-colored hair hung to his shoulders in waves of thick silk, and his gray eyes glittered and reminded her that she had been naked under his touch.

Her cheeks felt warm as she managed to say, "Oh... my lord."

He smiled, and as though he had never treated her like a piece of fluff, had never touched her naked skin, he said, "I trust you slept well in your... er... dusty room?"

"I did... and it is dusty no longer. Spent a bit of time this morning and set it to rights."

"Good. Now if you will, Miss..."

"White, Myriah White," she offered hastily.

"Miss White... I have some questions." He waved her to a brown leather winged chair and took one up opposite after she deposited the candleholder on a nearby table and sat. "I would like to know what you and your groom were doing on the Pike Road at such an hour."

"We were on the way to my aunt's in Dover. We lost our way... rested the horses and ourselves, and again became hopelessly lost. We hadn't meant to travel so late, you see, and then I noticed a horse near the ditch and after investigating, found your brother, bleeding to death in the ditch." _There_ , she thought, _that should silence him_.

"I see. Then we have imposed on you long enough. Should you need help finding the correct road to Dover, I will be happy to take you there in the morning."

"No." Myriah frowned. She had quite convinced herself that she needed to stay for at least a week, thinking she was already in so much trouble, what was another week? In fact, perhaps her father would be so worried he would no longer be furious, only concerned and happy to have her back safe and sound.

"No?"

"What I mean to say... what I have to tell you... well, I suppose only the truth will do. My father wishes me to marry a man I do not love..."

"I see, and you... cannot like the match?"

"I do not wish to marry at all, but unfortunately my father discovered us... kissing... and believes that my honor is at stake, which of course it is not. For goodness sake, why should I be forced to marry someone over a kiss? 'Tis nonsense."

"And you think to hide from him here? Eventually, you will need to go home."

"Yes, but time... often fixes things... don't you think?"

"Time can also work against you, my dear."

"Please, my lord, just another week?" Myriah pleaded.

He frowned and then sighed. "I can't very well throw you out. You have saved my brother's life and have played nursemaid to him... right then, one week, Miss White."

"Thank you," Myriah said, feeling wicked about keeping her true identity from him while she remained in his home.

He got up. "I think I'll visit that scamp brother of mine." He inclined his head. "Till later then."

She watched him go and sighed. It was time to go to the kitchen to visit with Cook and pick up some more information about Lord Wimborne.

* * *

The cook greeted her warmly and asked how the young master was. Myriah smiled. "I am sure he will be calling for a man's dinner this evening. In the meantime, I thought I would fix some tea and biscuits and take it up to him in a bit."

"How kind of you, Miss," Cook said, beaming.

"Oh... and I have taken a guestroom and polished it up, but I need some fresh linens and another blanket for the bed. I looked everywhere but couldn't find them."

"Lord love ye," clucked Cook, "that was a job for m'lads, that was. I'll have them take up what ye need."

"Thank you," Myriah said over her shoulder as she put a kettle on the fire.

"Wasn't expecting his lordship back so soon," Cook said, obvious looking to gossip. She put a stack of sweet tarts on the tray Myriah had set on the table.

"Yes, Mr. Wimborne was surprised as well—oh, and those look good."

"They be young Wimborne's favorite."

"Have you been with them at Wimborne long?" asked Myriah.

"M'mother was cook at Wimborne before me... 'tis a shame what hard times will do to a place."

"And they have fallen onto hard times?" asked Myriah.

"That they 'ave... we used to have quite a staff running about... then something went wrong jest this past year—just after his lordship come home from fighting the Frenchies in Spain. All but me and my boys were let go."

"How dreadful! Those poor people—did they find work?"

The cook cast her eyes away from Myriah's face and suddenly busied herself again. "Oh, as to that... they make out all right."

_Odd_ , thought Myriah. Why had the woman become suddenly secretive? She took up the tray, marveling to herself at its weight, and made her way to young Wimborne's room.

Without knocking at the open door, she sauntered in, placed the heavily laden tray on a stained wood table, and pulled it to the bed. Exclaiming disapprovingly, she made her way to the long window-hangings and opened them. "There, that's better!" she said, hands on hips. There wasn't much light from the dismal day, but it was better than total darkness.

"Oh God, she's back!" groaned young Wimborne. Myriah said nothing to this but went to his water pitcher, poured some of the cool water into the basin, and brought it to the bed. Dipping a washcloth in the water she moved it over her patient's face and neck, then left it in his free hand while she brought him a towel.

"There," she exclaimed with approval. "Now don't you feel better?"

"She-devil, move aside and let me eat!" retorted her patient.

She laughed, drew up a chair for herself, and placed a tray of delectables on his knees. "Eat, puppy. I am told the strawberry tart is your favorite."

"Aye, so it is." He smiled widely.

"Sip your tea first," she said, placing them out of his reach.

"Fiend!" He snorted but took up the cup and did in fact sip with a sound of pleasure.

She sipped her own tea and slid his tart to him. Watching him eat with relish, she thought he was well on the mend. When he had finished, she poured him another cup and handed it over, spilling a bit as she did so.

"Careful, chit!" admonished Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

"Ungrateful scamp! Be satisfied it was not dropped on your head."

"And is that how you treat your benefactor, Billy my lad?" said a male voice from the doorway.

"Back, Kit? Have some tea and one of those tarts, and aye, 'tis only what she deserves. She is a fiend."

"Would you like some tea, my lord? I've brought an extra cup," Myriah said, feeling for no apparent reason a sensation very much like shyness.

"Thank you, Miss White," his lordship replied quite formally. Myriah peered at him, wondering if this tall, honey-haired man was indeed the same one who had leaned over her last evening. He seemed so distant and... cold.

His imposing figure loomed above them as he came over for the teacup. He took up a chair and sat across from her with the small table between them, and Myriah decided to ignore him by sipping her tea.

"Drink up," Myriah ordered, returning her attention to Billy, who was staring out the window, his cup in mid-air.

" _Fire-breather_... no need for you to order me about—I was just about to," returned Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

Lord Wimborne laughed, sat back, and relaxed as he listened to the lively exchange between the two. He wondered about Miss White, as she called herself. She looked and behaved every bit the spoiled lady—certainly her clothes had come from none other than Madame Bertin's Salon.

Then, too, there was something in her self-assurance—something that spoke of breeding and exposure to a London Season. Yet he had never heard of the White family name. Then there was her story—it seemed odd and, though he believed it, something in her eyes had hinted of falsehoods.

It annoyed him and hovered about his thoughts like a fretful child. He watched her get up. Instinctively, his eyes meandered slowly over her body, but his eyelids quickly veiled his appreciation of her form. This was one pretty his instincts cautioned him to pass.

"If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I am sure you two have matters to discuss, and _I_ would dearly love a quick visit to the stables to look in on my Silkie," Myriah said, brushing a few crumbs into a napkin and leaving it on the table.

"But it is raining," his lordship offered with a frown.

"Ha! As though that could stop the she-devil," teased Billy, waving her off.

With her departure Kit relaxed and chuckled as he watched his brother devour another strawberry tart. "Billy, you and Miss White seem to have progressed into an extremely comfortable relationship," he said, eying him speculatively.

"Hmmm... she is a top sawyer. Don't let her bossiness fool you, Kit. She really is grand, you know!"

"And how came you to this profound conclusion about a young lady you hardly know?" his lordship asked drily.

"Kit!" Billy protested. "She saved my life! If Myriah had not found me and brought me home, I could have bled to death on the grass... or worse!"

"Worse?" Kit laughed and then sighed, "Very well, we will allow her that much. She did indeed deliver you into Fletcher's hands instead of hauling you off to the doctor's... which would have been the very devil to deal with."

"Aye, but, Kit," objected Billy once again, "she did far more than that! Lord—ain't Fletcher told you? He told me... fastened some sort of thing... ah, a tourniquet that slowed my blood from spilling out altogether. And what's more, she never asked _how_ I came by my bullet! Not one question. Nor does she talk around it like some females do trying to get you to slip up and give over..."

Kit laughed and put up his hands. "That, of course makes her right 'un!"

"Yes, it does," Billy said defensively. "She is plucky—for you must know her father has tried to bully her into marrying some chap she didn't take to. Up she gets and runs away! How many females do you know have the backbone to take such a step?"

"She told you that, eh?" His lordship was mildly surprised and asked, "And that step meets with your approbation, Billy?"

"Now, Kit, come down a leg! Lord, it ain't like you to get some preachy look over your face. 'Tis humbug you be pitching at me, and I want to know why!"

"Frankly, I don't wish for you to become involved with a girl of her stamp—" started his lordship.

A gusty laugh drowned out Kit's words. " _Involved?_ Egad, Kit... Myriah is a dazzler! Lord don't know when I've clapped eyes on a brighter flower. But she no more wants _my_ name than she wants that fellow's she is running away from!"

"But what do _you_ want, my bucko?" Kit asked.

"I want a fairy queen with china-blue eyes, corn silk hair blowing soft in the breeze... and I want her _ten years from now!"_ Billy grinned.

Kit smiled and stood up. "All right, lad. I'll plague you no more—for the time being. Get some rest."

"The devil I will!" retorted his brother. "'Tis your turn now, my brother."

"My turn, brat?" Kit's brow went up.

"Aye, what I want to know is why are you back... now?"
~ Four ~

MYRIAH MARVELED TO HERSELF at how different the land appeared during the daytime. The lawns, though overgrown, were a lush green and with but a little mending would once again be something pure and soft. The drive led to a winding, deeply etched, sea-green dyke. An apple orchard's rich blossoms filled the blue sky, and Myriah felt strangely content as she strolled along.

She liked Billy Wimborne. He was open, honest, and didn't try to flirt her to death... and all these traits were refreshing after her two seasons amongst the sophisticated London beaux!

Lord Wimborne was a different thing altogether. He was an experienced man—in many ways. She hadn't made up her mind about him. His gray eyes held secrets, his manner sophistication... and she had no doubt he was something of a ladies' man. He had been away fighting the French, which was why she had never encountered him at any of the London balls.

He had shown himself a dangerous libertine last night. He had taken a liberty without caring who she was, why she had been there... and the memory of his touch still thrilled her body.

He behaved as though it had never happened. He seemed totally disinterested in her, and Myriah was irritated by the fact. Why did she care? Because, she told herself, there was a mystery here she would enjoy unraveling.

Why had Billy been shot? Why had the Wimbornes fallen on bad times? And if they had, how did his lordship manage to acquire such superbly cut garments? And the stables—some very prime blood horses were housed there!

Just as these thoughts flitted about her mind, Myriah's feet felt the reverberation of horses' hooves. Without knowing why, her heart skipped nervously, and she turned and made a dash up the drive towards the house, cutting across the lawns and reaching the front doors just as a group of riders in military uniform appeared on the front drive.

She rushed into the house, went to a mirror, and tidied herself—and something deep in the pit of her stomach told her she would have to keep her wits about her.

A moment later the heavy knocker sounded. Myriah smoothed her blue silk skirt, took a long breath, and moved slowly toward the door, fixing a becoming smile on her face as she did so.

Myriah opened the door wide and allowed her charm to play about her eyes and mouth, dazzling the young man standing on the portico. He whipped off his Tricorn hat and tucked it under his arm.

Myriah smiled shyly, allowing him to think she was dazzled by his red and blue uniform. The officer cleared his throat and bellowed in an official tone, "Is this the home of Mr. William Wimborne?"

Myriah smiled prettily, and it would have been a hard man indeed who could doubt the innocence she portrayed. "Why, yes, sir, it is... but pray, who may you be?"

Once again he cleared his throat and continued in the same tone, trying not to look her over. "I am Corporal John Stone. Is Mr. Wimborne at home, madam?"

"Why, yes, sir, he is—but let us not stand _here!_ Do come in," Myriah said disarmingly.

Before accepting her invitation, the corporal turned to the handsome collection of military minions astride their horses and ordered them to await his return. Myriah closed the door behind him and turned once again to smile.

The corporal was not proof against her wiles, and with his men out of sight, he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying her friendly smile. "I regret, madam, that I must ask you to have Mr. Wimborne called," he said, beginning to open a small leather bag that swung from his wrist.

She regarded this with interest, and as the corporal produced a somewhat damaged man's dark top hat, clapped her hands with a superb show of grateful animation. "Oh! That is William's hat! I am so pleased you found it. You can have no notion how disturbed I have been ever since I was so careless as to lose it."

Taken aback, the corporal blinked at Myriah. _"You..._ you say... _you_ lost it?" He hesitated a moment and then looked at Myriah intently. "May I ask how it came to be in _your_ possession and _who you might be?"_

She giggled and took the hat from him before he realized what she was about. With an admirable quickness of wit she discovered all she needed to know and begged the corporal to observe the line her finger traced. "There... do you not see how soiled the lining has become? I thought this was a perfectly good hat—or at least it was until I was stupid enough to drop it. At any rate I was taking it into town to have a new lining installed. I did so want to have my cousin's name embroidered inside as well and then bring it back as a surprise. But how wonderful that you have found it, for perhaps _now_ I can set it to rights."

"I see... you... say Mr. Wimborne is your cousin?"

"Why, yes, I am Miss Myriah White, and I am staying just a few days before I leave for my aunt's in Dover. Do tell me... where _did_ you find the hat?" continued Myriah sweetly.

"Not very far from the house, Miss White..." The Corporal faltered, his frown deepening, for his case had suddenly vanished. "Near a rather large area of stained grass."

"Stained grass?" Myriah asked in surprise.

"Yes, Miss White... stained with blood," the corporal said without caution.

"Oh—oh dear... blood, you say...? Oh... I do feel ill," she peeped at him. "Was it an animal, poor thing?" She put a hand to her heart.

"Yes... do tell us," said a deep, authoritative voice from the stairs. Lord Wimborne came forward and asked, "Was it _animal blood_?"

The young military man blushed. "Well, no, my lord—actually we are certain... we have reason to believe a man was shot."

"Why?" pursued his lordship, his face stony.

The corporal eyed Lord Wimborne. "Confound it, my lord, you know very well why! We shot at a _smuggler_ and found a pool of blood on your land!"

Lord Wimborne's hard gray eyes never flickered. His lips were set and his tone was dry. "Then, it appears to me _you_ should be seeking the desperate individual in earnest and _not_ _delivering hats_!"

The riding officer's cheeks flushed. It was obvious he believed he was being duped, but there was not very much he could do. He was already on dangerous ground. "But—but, my lord..."

"Shall I fetch my brother? Perhaps if he were to confirm the ownership of the hat in question..." Lord Wimborne said coldly.

The young man turned and rubbed his hawk-like nose. He was going to catch hell for this. He had no proof, and it was obvious his lordship meant to stir up the coals if he did not retreat. "No, that won't be necessary. I should be getting back to my men. We do, as my lord has pointed out, have smugglers to trap." He turned, bowed to Myriah, and softly offered, "Good day."

Lord Christopher Wimborne stood as though transfixed on the closed door as he waited for the sound of retreating mounted soldiers. At length he sighed and looked at Myriah with a questioning glance. "You make an excellent prevaricator, Miss White," he said quietly.

"I find that 'excellent and prevaricator' do not a compliment make, and I do not take it as one," Myriah returned. What was in his head now—just what was wrong with him?

"Would you do me the honor of advising me _why_ you felt it necessary in _this_ circumstance?"

She looked at him fully and felt her brows arch. Whatever was the matter with him? Didn't he realize she had playacted to protect Billy? Apparently not, for it was evident he was displeased with her. "My lord, I thought you overheard all—he wanted to _see Billy_."

"And what—you felt he should not?" asked his lordship. " _I_ very naturally thought he should not, but why, Miss White, did you?"

"My goodness... he is an exciseman, as you very well know. Furthermore, they were looking for a man they had shot at and hit, and had they seen Billy with his wounded arm, naturally conclusions would have been drawn. I did not wish them to... look towards Billy."

"Then, Miss White, you believe my brother to be a smuggler?" his lordship asked, his expression and tone unfathomable.

"Nooo, indeed, I do not!" Myriah played with her fingers. "What I believe is that Billy became embroiled," she then muttered, "as _I_ often have been, in... in an excursion that somehow got out of hand. I don't know what that excursion was, nor do I care. What I do care about is your brother's well-being. Do you disapprove?"

"Disapprove? Why, no—you did just what _I_ would have done had I answered the door of _my home!"_ his lordship returned drily.

"Oh!" said Myriah, the color rising to her cheeks. "I... I am so sorry. Indeed the circumstances which threw your brother and me together... were such that all formalities were dropped. I... it... seems I have presumed..." she said, turning her face away. A painful hollow was created somewhere in the region of her chest—a hurt she recognized as rejection.

Myriah had never before been rejected, and it came as a facer from this handsome blade.

Kit studied the top of her fiery head a moment. He could not allow himself to trust her. He sensed a lie about her, and yet when her magnificent eyes had met his own so innocently searching for approbation he had wanted to reassure her—and yet he didn't.

He was angry, far too angry with her, for having spoken to the exciseman, for if Myriah had not been suspicious before, she certainly would be now. Yet a guilty pinch nipped at him. It was unlike him to be rude to anyone, least of all a lovely woman, and there was no use denying his attraction for Myriah. She would have to go—and soon!

"If you will excuse me, Miss White, it seems I have been most rude. While you are at Wimborne Towers, do consider it your own."

He saw the defensive look that took over her face and felt a wave of admiration for the control she exerted over her anger. Damn but she was exquisite!

"Consider Wimborne Towers _my own?_ My lord, I take leave to tell you that I would not, with the exception of your brother, associate myself with anything that is _yours!"_

She turned on her pretty blue slipper, picked up the velvet skirts of her form-fitted peacock blue gown, and sped to the second floor, leaving him gazing after her with a slow, warm grin covering his countenance.

* * *

Myriah slammed the door to the bedroom and leaned back against its cool whiteness, arms folded and smooth cheeks flushed. The utter want of civility of him! The inconsiderate... ill-bred... cad, thought Myriah heatedly.

She crossed the room quickly, picked up a well-used deck of playing cards, and handled it agitatedly. Lord... if he but knew who she was, but thankfully, he did not... for he could use it against her, couldn't he?

And she did not want Lord Wimborne to be civil to her because he was impressed by her name or her wealth. No, she wanted him to like her for herself. For some inexplicable reason he seemed bent on finding fault with her. 'Twas not only over the incident with the military man, but earlier that morning in Billy's room. She had felt his coldness—even his dislike—and had been surprised by it.

She looked at the deck of cards in her hands for the first time and thought of Billy Wimborne. A soft smile crept into her eyes. At any rate, here was someone who took her as she was. She turned and left the room, crossed the hall, and knocked on his open door.

"It's about time!" yelled the young man inside. As Myriah entered he pulled a long face and complained, "Thought you had all forgotten me, and I'm devilishly hungry!"

She laughed. "Well, 'tis only noon yet—so you shall have to wait, but how would you like a game of faro to help pass the time?"

"She-devil!" returned young Mr. Wimborne. "Here I am half-dead, and you after m'blunt!"

For answer she laughed, drew up the stained wood table, sat across from him, and smiled. "I shall deal."

"Then do so, but I warn you, m'girl, keep your hands above the table!"

They played a few hands before Billy asked casually who had been at the house.

Myriah eyed him for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"Because Kit left m'room to go greet our guest, and we get so few these days, and then he up and disappears. And you... you slam doors—well, it fair sets a chap to wondering," he said, raising his eyes to her face.

"Your odious brother does not like me—not that I care—but he need not be so rude. After all..."

"After all what? And don't be calling m'brother odious!" Billy snapped, quick to range himself on his brother's side.

"Well, of course, _you_ would not think so. But then he was not uncivil to _you_!" Myriah retorted, flushing.

"Was Kit uncivil to you?"

"Somewhat. But in all fairness, I suppose I was presumptuous."

"Fiend seize it, girl! What _are_ you talking about?" asked Billy, frowning.

" _Your hat!_ " Myriah sighed. "It seems they found the blasted thing near your blood... on Wimborne lands. Well... I simply threw them off the track by saying that _I_ had dropped your hat when I was on my way to town to have a new lining and embroidery job done on it. They wanted to see you, and your brother pretended to be willing enough, which seems to have done the trick—besides his air of superiority. Quite impressive really... but then he was most disturbed that I had answered the door."

"Good Lord! Yes, I can imagine," replied Billy, frowning darkly.

"Billy!" Myriah exclaimed, "Et tu Bruté?"

"You don't understand, Myriah! Bless you... for you did just as you ought. Always knew you were a right 'un, but Kit... he don't like the notion of you smelling out our business!"

Myriah took umbrage. "Billy Wimborne! I have not tried to _smell_ out your business. I have already told your odi... your brother... that I am not interested in your business. Though, to be sure, I have developed a certain absorption in your welfare."

"I know that, m'girl! Lord, I trusted you with m'life, didn't I? 'Tis Kit... he doesn't trust so easily. I suppose it was the war... you know he only sold out a year ago, and well, never mind that now. Don't fret it—he'll come round."

"Well, I don't care if he does or not... for I shall soon be going," Myriah announced haughtily.

Billy eyed her for a moment and said slowly, "You know, Myriah... I have been thinking that you shouldn't leave for quite a spell... might end up with the knot neatly tied if you do... for your father is bound to be in a rage."

Myriah bit her lip and imagined what might lie in store for her if her father were to find her while he was still bent on marrying her off.

"I know, Billy, but your brother really dislikes having me here. So I thought I would be off on the morrow!"

"My brother will allow you to stay as long as _I_ wish you to stay. And, Myriah, _I'm not_ about to allow you to be eaten alive after you have been friend enough to _save me_!"

"Billy, he will be so angry—I know."

" _Kit?_ Funny you should think that. It ain't like him to lose his temper. Friendly sort and cool and collected—always has been. No... he'll come round."

"Very well. I thank you, sir," Myriah said still doubtful.

"Good Lord! What have I done—you will stay and continue, I know, to plague me!" Billy bantered.

She tweaked his nose and told him to go to sleep. He eyed her defiantly. "The devil I will! Where is my lunch?"

"Oh, I quite forgot about food. I shall go have Cook send it up at once," Myriah said, moving away.

A few moments later Myriah stood in the kitchen with Cook and watched a tray of food carried out by one of Cook's boys. She turned once again to the older woman, placing a coin in her hand and smiling warmly. "I do feel so distressed about asking this, for I can appreciate how difficult 'twill be when there are only your two boys, but I would so like a hot bath."

"Never you fret it, miss! I'll have those rascally brats of mine carry up the hot water right away." Cook beamed at Myriah's generosity. "And, Miss, will you be wanting a luncheon tray?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I'm not really hungry today."

Myriah went into the library and began fingering some of the leather-bound volumes. Her eyes strayed to the leaded, diamond-paned windows and saw a rider making his easy way up the front path.

Honey-colored hair, uncovered and lit by the full day's sun, billowed about a handsomely rugged countenance. Myriah's eyes lingered and discovered once again the broad shoulders encased in a well-cut, dark brown riding jacket. She felt a tingling sensation, and on sudden impulse she dashed out of the library and out the front doors, blue velvet swishing around her body.

She would go see Tabby, she told herself. Of course... why shouldn't she go and see her groom?

* * *

Lord Wimborne had made a visit to nearby Rye, and it had proved fruitful. A meeting for the following night had been agreed upon. He rode his dark roan into the stable and found Tabby brushing down Myriah's black stallion. Wimborne dismounted, undid the girth to his saddle, and nodded to Fletcher, who came to retrieve the tack and take the horse to pasture.

He looked appraisingly at the black horse Tabby was grooming. He was an excellent judge of horseflesh, and the animal that stood so regally before him was certainly prime blood and must have come at quite a price. It seemed that Miss White was well able to afford what was most certainly a very expensive piece of livestock.

He then turned his attention to Miss White's groom and smiled amicably. "Finest piece of blood I've clapped my eyes on in an age."

Tabby beamed. "That he be."

"Your mistress was certainly fortunate, for I have been looking for just such an animal these three months. But, of course, I don't get too many opportunities to go to Tattersall's in London," his lordship said calculatingly.

Tabby was no fool, but he had no reason to be suspicious. He did not realize he was being pumped, and he answered candidly. "They get the best, they do, Tattersall's."

Kit put his finger to his lips. "Then, she did acquire him there—your mistress? Miss... er..."

"White!" Myriah said from the doorway, thanking providence she had arrived in time.

Kit turned, and his habitually merry gray eyes glinted. He had wanted to see if Myriah's groom was in on her game.

Tabby glanced hastily from Lord Wimborne to his lady and caught the look in her eyes. He sent his own downwards.

When Tabby looked up again it was to meet the questioning eyes of Fletcher, who had just returned. He pulled a rueful face and busied himself with cleaning the leathers.

"Ah, Miss White," said Kit. "We were just speaking about your magnificent black here... and where you might have purchased him."

"Oh? It was purchased for me... I believe at Tattersall's. Silkie was a gift from my mother... five years ago."

His lordship saw a sadness hover around her eyes; he wondered about it and on impulse offered an invitation. "Would you enjoy a tour about Wimborne Park with me?"

Myriah brightened at once. "Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you."

He offered his arm and stopped as if suddenly remembering. "Oh, do excuse me. I am taking you away... for apparently you came to the stables with... something in mind?" He watched her face with only a mild show of interest.

She blushed, and he could not help but note it. _I was right_ , he thought. _The chit is_ _hiding something_.

"I... I had wanted to speak to my groom about a matter that can certainly wait. It is so warm and lovely that... I should hate the chance of missing a guided tour." She cast her eyes up to his and allowed him a full look.

_Fiend take her,_ thought Kit _, she is too beautiful... and my_ _blood will need cooling if I drink in those eyes_. He led her for a time down the main drive to the pike, turning off onto a narrow trail and pointing towards a body of sea green water. "That's Rother River, and it borders Romney Marsh."

"Oh, it is quite lovely here, as lovely as my own home," Myriah said, off guard. "But wait... Romney Marsh... is that not the area notorious for harboring smugglers?"

"Ah, yes, it has quite a reputation."

"Reputation? It certainly does." Myriah snorted. "And here it is adjacent to Wimborne."

"Would you trust my answer?"

"It depends—would you trust me with it?"

He laughed. "I see trust is an issue with us, but, Myriah, I have never claimed to be someone I'm not." It was a shot in the dark, but he saw from her expression that he had hit his target.

"OH!" Myriah exclaimed. "I must say, I do question Billy's judgment. However did he come to think that you are a friendly sort? For you must know that I find you nothing more than a... a... boor!" Myriah turned, very much on the point of abandoning her guided tour.

* * *

He laughed suddenly, and there was a beguiling quality in his voice as his hand reached out and caught Myriah's bare arm. She turned her countenance upon him as a thrill taunted her flesh. The memory of his lips flashed over her—and suddenly it was no longer a memory.

He had her in his warm embrace, his head bent and his mouth on hers, parting her lips for his velvet, waltzing tongue. She lost herself in the moment, in the dance that was tingling her body and calling for more of the same.

His kiss evolved into another, and she felt as though she were about to collapse when he pulled back, set her on his feet, and inclined his head. "Forgive me."

She wanted to stamp her foot at him but tried to collect herself as he actually took her hand and linked it through his arm, adding, "I took advantage, but damnation, woman, I can't say I am sorry for it." He eyed her curiously. "Now tell me, Miss White... who the hell are you?"

Myriah was bubbling over with confusion. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to slap him. She wanted him to—what? Declare his devotion as her other suitors had? However, he appeared to be in control of himself and was obviously playing some deep game.

She pulled out of his gentle hold and, without a word, left him standing there, looking after her as she made her hasty departure.

Her indignation made her unreasonable, and her fury carried her all the way to the house and to her waiting bath.

* * *

Lord Wimborne's deep gray eyes watched Myriah's body as she ran off. He felt a wave of heat rage through him. His hard-on was damned uncomfortable in his breeches, and he knew he had to stop giving in to this mindless desire he had for her.

What was wrong with him, anyway? Why did it matter what her real name was? She had been instrumental in saving his brother's life, and Billy was his treasure. There too lay another source of his discomfort. He had no desire for his brother to develop an attachment to Myriah. Billy had said he wasn't interested, yet Lord Wimborne found this hard to believe. Indeed, he could not imagine how any man would not fall prey to Myriah's charms... and certainly Billy was no sophisticate. In fact, Billy's preoccupation with the flaming chit was beginning to disturb Kit greatly. Again he thought, she would have to go—and soon!

* * *

In Billy's bedchamber a blazing fire crackled and gave a warm backdrop to a cozy scene.

Myriah's back was to Billy while her head was bent forward, her long red tresses over her face as she toweled them dry. That she was clothed in nothing more than Master Billy's long, dark brocade dressing gown and that she was in a state of dishabille seemed insignificant to both parties as they bantered amicably with one another.

Forgotten were conventionalities and pompous aunts—especially her aunt Emily, who would have raised her eyes to heaven and declared Myriah quite lost to a sense of the proprieties. Here was a friend—the brother she had never had—and Myriah so needed him now.

London had made her lonely. Odd, for she had been surrounded by frivolous society, but her dearest friends were already married and away in the country. Her new London friends saw her as too great a competition for the London beaux. And the London beaux too often felt it necessary to make of her an object they believed needed coddling. Myriah had discovered she was not formed for such a life. She felt estranged from all her present peers and needed someone to laugh with, be at ease with... to understand and be understood.

The headiness, the intimacy of the situation with Billy Wimborne had made them fast friends. Each was in need of companionship, and neither saw the other as anything but a friend. All reserves had somehow dissolved.

Myriah had come into Billy's room earlier in search of a dressing gown to wear after her bath, as she had very little in the way of clothes with her.

She had been in a stormy mood, a state resulting from her disagreeable conversation with Lord Wimborne.

Billy had laughed at her and called her a veritable Titan, saying her face was the color of her hair and didn't it look odd against her blue-green eyes?

That made her giggle, and having found that his dressing gown would serve, she made for her bath a bit more in spirits. The soothing hot water rinsed away her bad temper, for Myriah was one of those creatures who fired up quickly but rarely sustained her temper.

When she was nearly finished with her bath, she heard Billy shouting her name. Drying herself quickly, she shrugged on his dressing gown and sped barefoot across the cold wooden floor to his room. He grinned at her boyishly.

"There now, m'girl... ain't I bright? I had the fire lit for you!"

She pulled a comic face. "Puppy! Is that what you rushed me out of my bath for? I would have stayed another hour soaking if you had not sounded as though the house were coming down round your ears!"

He laughed, looked her over, and laughed again. "Lord, but you look like a damp she-devil, you do!"

She proceeded to take her place by the fire. "The very least you could have done was to have the fire lit in _my room_."

"Would have been a waste, m'dear! We are thrifty here, at Wimborne, or haven't you noticed?" he said with a lack of gravity in his voice that made Myriah glance at him sharply. "Thrifty, that's what we are," he went on. "And since I was feeling a bit chilled, thought I'd—"

"Odious boy!" Myriah exclaimed from beneath her hair, blowing at it to keep it out of her mouth. "Trying to make me think you'd done it all for me."

"Rather clever, ain't I?" He grinned.

It was at this moment Lord Wimborne appeared in the doorway of Billy's room. He scanned the cozy scene and, though the proprieties had never really governed his lifestyle, it would be factual to describe his reaction of stiff surprise as definitely bordering on prudery—a thing most odd in a fellow whose social delights had little to do with priggish manners.

Lord Wimborne observed little of the natural ingenuousness of the scene, for what he saw was a wildly alluring female, obviously naked beneath his brother's dressing gown!

If that was not enough to shock his soul, there was the disconcerting circumstance that he was unable to take his eyes away from the open neckline, too large to hide the tantalizing whiteness of Myriah's full and exquisitely perky breasts. Added to this was the fact that the bewitching creature seemed totally unembarrassed—indeed she appeared to taunt his young and innocent brother by flaunting her wild red hair.

To further fuel his indignation, he could not help but notice that his scamp of a brother seemed fully at ease with the minx. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Myriah was not the respectable maid she would have them believe but an adventuress... and his brother her _prey!_

"Indeed—do I intrude?" his lordship said, gray eyes dark with his thoughts.

Billy looked surprised at his brother's tone. "Hold, Kit—what's towards?"

Kit turned angrily and for some inexplicable reason felt irritated with Billy. _"You..._ ask _me_ what is towards? Indeed, Billy, in the face of this _delectable_ scene, I find it a bit much!"

"Eh?" Billy replied, genuinely all at sea.

Myriah understood Lord Wimborne's meaning all too well, and the shyness she had experienced when she first heard his voice was replaced with seething indignation. She brushed her flaming locks away from her face, and her own eyes flashed at his lordship. "Your disgusting insinuations do your brother little justice, my lord. Or do you believe him as boorish as yourself?"

Billy's eyes lighted with sudden understanding, his face with openmouthed disbelief, for the notion struck him as insanely ludicrous. All at once the room exploded with his laughter, and he made an attempt to raise a pointing finger at Myriah while he demanded of his brother, "You... you think... Myriah and I...?" And then he burst out with roaring laughter once again.

Myriah looked at herself. Frowning over her state of disarray, she glanced at Billy and advised with a wagging finger, "Not funny, sir," with which she burst out laughing herself.

Lord Wimborne reevaluated the situation but said nothing as he started out the door, throwing over his broad shoulder, "I asked if Cook could stay a bit later today and serve us dinner here... in your room, Billy."

"Excellent... and I want some meat... rare meat!"

Myriah shook her head as she left him and went to her own room to get dressed. His lordship was stirring her up all the time. She would no sooner calm down from one encounter than suddenly she'd be sent spiraling again. It had to stop... somehow.

* * *

Dinner turned out to be a lively event in the warm and cozy confines of Billy's room.

Myriah found herself seated across from his lordship with the small table between them, while Billy still took a tray in his bed.

A knock sounded at the open door, and they turned to find Tabby standing there looking worried. "Yes, Tabby?" Myriah smiled at him.

"M'lord...?" Tabby returned, looking at his lordship. "Fletcher sent me to fetch ye real quick. There be a riding officer, a corporal at the stables, and he means to come up to the house and 'ave a word with Master William."

"What?" shrieked Myriah.

"I was afraid of this. It seems he was able to think clearly once he got away from your pretty face, Miss White," his lordship said with a frown. "Very well, I'll handle him. Keep him below. I shall be down presently."

"My lord, Billy will have to show his face," Myriah stuck in. "If we hurry, perhaps we can manage to pass through the thing creditably." An idea flashed in her head, and she rushed back to her room to fetch Billy's discarded dressing gown.

She returned to find both men staring at her speculatively. "We will put him in the brocade gown—over his nightdress... his legs, thank God, are in good working order, and with any luck, the wound will not open."

"My dear girl, if Billy attempts to take those stairs, there is every good chance that the wound _will_ open up, and _that_ is precisely what our hungry exciseman is looking for!" snapped his lordship.

"But Billy will not take the stairs. He will stand at its height and haughtily request to be told why he needs be disturbed from his bath!"

"Splendid!" Billy declared. "'Tis just what I shall do. Stoopid fellows—did they think they had me boxed in?"

Lord Wimborne's eyes narrowed, but he had already picked up the robe and assisted his young brother into its folds. Billy winced with pain as his arm was both stiff and sore; bending and shoving it into the robe was not easy.

Kit stopped and eyed him anxiously. "It was bad, eh, lad?"

"Stuff!" retorted Billy.

His lordship helped him to his feet and with a steadying hand left him to Myriah. She clucked her tongue, for he was white with pain, and she looked worriedly at his arm. They waited at the doorway listening to Lord Wimborne berating the exciseman below for coming at such an inconvenient hour. They waited for the right moment and clearly overheard...

"May I ask why my brother must be summoned... or do you landsmen make it a practice to deal with landowners in such a manner?" his lordship asked cuttingly. The young military man blushed the color of his red coat, for although everyone knew the Wimbornes were dished, without a sou to their name, that name was still quite important in Sussex.

"I am extremely sorry, my lord... but as the matter is of the gravest nature, because one of our men was certain that he recognized your brother as the man he shot..."

"My cousin has already told you Mr. Wimborne's hat was in her possession, and therefore he could not have dropped it the other night."

"Yes, my lord," interjected the landsman, "and I do not doubt her. However, your brother must show himself, if only to clear his good name, for the man we pursued _was_ hit—and badly!"

"I, sir?" said a proud young man from the top of the stairs. "I have no need to _clear my name_... 'twas never in question! I find your statements to my brother, his lordship, most insulting and have every intention of making a report to your superiors."

Kit's gray eyes twinkled as he watched Billy above stairs put on a show. Myriah caught the look, and her own danced in unison.

"Oh, Cousin Billy... I am sure the good officer meant you no harm." Myriah cast the suffering man a look of gentle understanding. "He was after all only doing his duty."

Corporal Stone shot her a grateful look and, finding that Billy was apparently all in one piece, said quietly, "I do beg your pardon. I shall reprimand my man, as he must have been mistaken. It was after all... dark." He sighed and turned to his lordship. "I am very sorry to have troubled you and shall do so no longer."

The double doors were closed behind him; three pair of eyes lit with triumph, and after a careful moment the halls of Wimborne Towers reverberated with the sound of giddy laughter.

The excursion had tired Billy more than they had at first realized, and when he was at last returned to his bed, he closed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted. Myriah and Lord Wimborne left him sleeping and retired below stairs to the library, where a fire was still dimly burning.

Lord Wimborne positioned another log on the fire, dusted his hands against one another, and turned a warm smile upon Myriah. They had scraped through a very sticky business, and he was disposed to feel a bit friendlier towards her.

She looked stunning in her peacock blue, and in the firelight her curls glittered temptingly... urging him to touch.

Myriah eyed him, feeling strangely missish. "You are suddenly very quiet."

He smiled ruefully. "Was I? I was wondering about the man you are so against being married to. Is he so unsuitable that you had to run?"

"Sir Ro... I mean, well... never mind his name—to answer your question, he is completely suitable. In fact, he is probably any maid's dream. He is handsome, strong, amusing—"

"A veritable god!" snapped his lordship. "It staggers the mind, my girl, why you have balked!"

"But, my lord... I am not in love with him," answered Myriah, wide-eyed.

"Ah, so it seems you won't marry without the questionable emotion," Kit teased _,_ his eyes taking on some merriment.

"Certainly not!" retorted Myriah. "Would you?"

He chuckled. "As you see, I am still a bachelor, my girl."

"So you have never fallen in love?"

"Luckily I have escaped the plaguey emotion."

"But... but you must be... how old _are_ you?" Myriah asked.

"Seven and twenty this past March," Kit responded, flicking her nose. "And you, sweetings?"

"I shall be one and twenty in a month's time."

"Ah—a veritable old maid!"

"Odious creature!"

"Name calling, my dear, is not nice," he admonished her playfully.

"Then do not call me 'sweetings', because my name is Myriah."

"Myriah...?" he said slowly, looking her over. "Your name suits you well, for if memory serves me, it means _pernicious_!"

"Oh! Wretch! Pernicious indeed! Your memory does not serve you, my lord, for it means no such thing! It is a biblical name, though I do spell it differently, and it means spirited!"

She sighed and moved away from him, but the sadness in her voice was not lost on him. She looked at him then and added, "Mama had the naming of me—she nearly died giving birth to me, for I came early. She said I was just a slip of an infant, and my fighting for life at birth won me the name Myriah. But Papa would have it that Myriah was what he always called Mama... and because I was her image, he claimed he had the naming of me."

"And from that moment on, of course, you have tried to live up to your name?" teased his lordship.

"I have never had to try." She sighed heavily. "'Tis no pleasant thing to have the blood of a runner and be made to walk. I am forever being told, 'No, Myriah.' 'It would not do, Myriah.' 'Don't, Myriah.' _Faith_ , you can have no notion what it is to be able to fly... and be forbidden the use of your wings!"

He read the pain in her face, and it brought a frown to Kit's dark eyebrows. "Your parents are no longer pleased with your spirit?"

"My parents? Oh, Papa... well, he is a man, and to be fair he is really good about most things. He says I am Mama... all over again, and that pleases him. But he has sisters, many sisters—and they don't see it quite in the same light. He has to deal with them, and it isn't always easy. How could it not affect him?" She sighed again and played with her fingers. "It was different when I had Mama. She always understood. She said it was like watching herself growing up. How we laughed together..." Her voice trailed off as her heart rediscovered a scene long ago.

Kit felt rough fingers work at his heart. "When did you lose her, Myriah?"

"Five years ago. I came home from school to find her with fever. She died shortly after. She had never before been low or ill. Papa was in shock for such a long time... but he and I are friends. Papa says I am Mama in every way. But he is wrong. She was contented, so sweetly contented... and I no longer am!"

Myriah had never before spoken to anyone about this.

She did not now understand why so much had flowed so freely. She only knew that she had let down her guard before this man, who was virtually a stranger.

"Poor Myriah, but it is not Myriah _White from Dover..._ now is it?" Kit asked, because he had an urge to hear the truth from _her_ lips. He had a need to trust her completely—to have the lie dispelled.

Myriah's guard went right back up. Why did he harp on that single point? What was he after, confound him! She couldn't tell him who she was—she didn't want him to know she was an heiress.

It was obvious _he_ was in need of money, and although she had begun the lie to spare her name from being bandied about in gossip, she now needed the lie for another reason.

"I... I don't know what you mean," she said.

All at once he was towering over her, pulling her almost roughly, certainly hungrily against his hard body. His gray eyes smoldered above her own. "Don't you know that you have not learned the knack of it, Myriah? You have such speaking eyes... they give you away. You shouldn't lie—unless you can."

"Why... my lord," she said, avoiding eye contact, her blood rushing throughout her body and turning her mind into mush. "Just recently you declared I lied very well."

Suddenly she was tight in his embrace, and his kiss burned her lips intensely as his tongue parted them and dove to find a willing partner.

Myriah felt her body go limp and pliable in his arms. She felt helpless to stop him because she didn't want to. What she wanted was his kisses, and she realized here were her bells and rockets and...

She wanted his tongue to go on teasing hers—to feel the velvet lapping seductively at her own. She wanted his hands all over her body.

She ran her fingers up his rock-hard chest and held on with a passion she had never known she was capable of feeling. She suddenly realized he had undone the lacing of her gown so it was falling to the floor—and she stepped out of its velvet folds and used the rug to work her slippers off her feet.

She knew herself a wanton creature when she started pulling at his jacket and it came away and fell to the floor. Somehow he was out of his shirt, and _oh_... she thought, _oh... his chest_...

She noticed the etching of a tattoo and traced its unusual design with her fingers across his sensuous, hard torso. He growled low in his throat, and the sound sent erotic shivers through her. A voice called her name. _'Myriah... you_ _are turning into a tart_... '

_Yes—a tart_ , she thought, for an innocent maid did not give herself to anyone but her intended... but she had never wanted to be innocent.

She blocked all reason. Rules were made by men—and this one was absurd.

What she wanted was more of his touching—like the night he had found her naked in his bed and his fingers had created magic throughout her senses.

She threw back her head as his kisses traveled over her neck, down further to the breast he was fondling. She wondered, _Is this love? And does he feel what I do?_

* * *

He wasn't thinking. He wasn't evaluating, and he wasn't going to. He had lost all reason, and he didn't want it back... a thing that had never happened to him before. He had pleasured and been pleasured by exquisite women in his time, but... this...?

She filled him with need, and he threw caution to the wind as he let himself surrender control.

He had always been careful, telling himself not to allow his cock to rule his head... but he couldn't stop. He wanted her beyond imagination—and damn well meant to have her!

Her kiss tasted like strawberries and honey, and he wanted to go on kissing her forever. Her body... he had to have her body. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pulled her blue velvet gown until it fell to her ankles. He sucked in a long drag of air because she had nothing—absolutely nothing—on beneath her gown.

She was ravishing... every inch of her under his fingers felt like silk. He burned with an ache that sizzled through his veins and made his dick throb and dance with wanting.

Her breasts were full and so perfectly rounded he wanted to bury his face there. He took her nipple between his fingers and teased her until she was arching and making delicious moaning whimpers that set him on fire.

She removed his jacket, and he hurriedly threw off his white shirt. She touched his tattoos, and he heard the feral growl escape his lips as he bent to suckle at those beautiful rosebuds, fondling her all the while.

One hand worked the buttons of his breeches, got them undone and off. He easily, expertly used his heel to get off his Hessian boots, and kicking them away he kissed the hollow in her neck, licked her nipples, and pulled her butt into him...

Boots gone, breeches followed, and then he held her naked, beautiful form to his solid body, pressing his throbbing manhood against her.

Something in his mind told him to stop. Good sense told him this was trouble. A warning clicked off that he was going too far with her...

Those thoughts were buried as his hand took hers and placed it on his huge, pulsating dick. He whispered, "Touch... stroke... love... stroke... oh yes, beauty..." And then he was lost to the lust as he picked her up cradle-like in his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedroom, where he laid her on the bed and stared for a few moments before he moved to straddle her.

She seemed mesmerized by his manhood and kept playing with its tip, driving him wild. He took it from her and put it to her lips. She was hesitant at first as she kissed it.

"Hell and Fire... Myriah..." He shivered as an electric bolt, fully charged, shimmed through him.

* * *

His manhood was something she couldn't tear her gaze away from. She felt this instinctual need to touch it, squeeze it, run her hand up and down its long, wide length...

She wanted him but didn't know how to express herself. She wanted something from him as her body built into a fever-pitch of desire, and then he had the tuft between her thighs in his hand. He shook it until she arched up high and groaned with need.

"Want me, Myriah... want more?"

"Yes... yes... want..."

He maneuvered her so his face was between her thighs, and then he began licking her, nibbling, driving her mad. All the while his finger worked the pink nub within until she released a cry of hunger that left her shuddering with pleasure she had never known possible.

He seemed almost ruthless as he set her in place, primal as he positioned his cock between her legs and looked for entry.

"So tight, beauty—made for me... so fucking tight... here, love, let me..." His hands went around her ass.

She felt him raise her butt and bring her to him as he inched his cock inside. She bucked against him, wanting him to enter.

"Want it now, do you...?" He breathed hard and fast as he plunged himself into her—and then suddenly stopped!

* * *

Shock riveted Kit's body. He had not expected this—not after she so eagerly accepted his advances. He had thought she had experience. What had he been thinking?

True, the intensity of his own desires had blotted all reasonable thought; still, how could she be a virgin when she had so hotly, so wantonly given herself to him? In fact, he had quite made up his mind that she was an adventuress running not from a would-be husband, but _from a lover_ —and for some obscure and detached irrationality, this notion had a stung him into a frenzy.

He only knew he'd wanted to make her his... and now he felt a cad. She was what she represented herself to be, and he had taken advantage...

However, Myriah had her arms around him and yanked down on him, and he found himself plunging deeper, harder faster.

* * *

Something stung at her heart and made a painful track to her throat. He wasn't declaring love, only shock she was a virgin. Oh no, he was apologizing for using her because he didn't want her forever.

He was apologizing? Had he not realized that he would be her first—that she would think him her only? Had he not known who and what she was? Had he not realized that she gave herself freely with her heart?

_Yes, Myriah, but you dove in, didn't you? What was he to think?_ Her sense of fairness jumped at her with words that stung and grabbed hold and shoved her into a blackness of despair.

She found herself totally, irrevocably, and most painfully in love. Love promises much in a young woman's dreams. And then very often throws its victims into the whirlwind of conflicting sensations from which recovery seems impossible.

Myriah lay there silently, waiting for the heavy breathing that told her he was asleep. She took up a quilt, slipped it around herself, and quietly padded towards the door. She wanted to look back at his beloved sleeping form, but she steeled herself and instead left the room, hurried downstairs. She retrieved her clothing and quickly returned this time to her own room. There she not only double-checked the lock at the door between his room and hers, but wedged a chair under the doorknob as well.

She dove for her bed, buried her face in her pillow, and suddenly released a sob. That sob went on for some while until, true to her nature, she told herself to buck up and get over it!

_Oh, Myriah_ , she thought miserably, _now you've gone and_ _tipped yourself a settler! You search about for a gallant with the magic to win your heart, and when you find him, he turns_ _out to be a penniless and secretive lord who thinks you (and with good reason) nothing but a tart—a fancy piece who he will never court for any reason other than to aid his financial situation when he finds out who you are._

The more she dwelt on the absurdity of her dilemma, the more wretched she felt. To confess her identity now would most assuredly deliver him to a sense of what _she,_ Lady Myriah of the Whitney line, was due.

But that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted his heart, and she didn't want him to want her for her money!

A good while was spent in unhappy thoughts and self-pity; however, Myriah was made of staunch and steady stuff, and she soon addressed herself to the problem at hand.

What she needed was a plan. Yes, a plan of action was all she needed to bring his lordship to his heart—because some instinct told her he definitely felt something out of the ordinary for her.

Solutions come quickly to an active mind, and several presented themselves to the lady. Much of the night was spent in laying out her strategy and sorting out any possibilities that were not employable. At last satisfied, her heart ceased its palpitations, pleased with her mind for its cleverness, and both organs allowed the lady to put her head on her pillow and remember Kit Wimborne's lovemaking...

* * *

Lord Wimborne by nature was a merry, pleasant, and well-liked man. Man being the key word. He had spent six years in service of his king and prince regent, fighting the Frogs in the Pyrenees, and it had taught him many things. One of the very first notions that settled in his well-ordered intellect was that the fair and lovely sex should be prized and adored, but rarely trusted.

He had his share of youthful romances with their accompanying pangs and inevitable flights; in truth, he'd enjoyed them all. Though he was still a bachelor and had not planned on changing his comfortable state in the foreseeable future, he had always felt he would one day take a wife.

She would be a special creature, with the honesty her sex lacked, with the beauty of love and innocence in her soul as well as in her form. He wanted no coquette, no fluttering, fainting wench—damnation, no. His dream bride was perfect in every way, as are most dreams.

His mother, who survived his father's death by many years, had been all a mother could be, and her sons had grown whole and healthy. However, they had lost her only two years ago, while Kit was in Spain in the midst of battle and Billy was at Oxford. Lord Wimborne, a major in his regiment, had sold out and come home to take up the management of his estates. He found them in miserable condition, simply because there had been no one about to attend to them.

A heaviness of spirit hung about him, for there would be no picking up his regimentals and rejoining in the near future. The Towers needed him. And then, shortly thereafter, he found yet another activity to keep him occupied.

Billy had finished his term and joined Kit at the Towers, and it was not long before the young man had embroiled himself in his brother's strange activities.

The emergence of Miss Myriah White on his plain had chained the dance in Kit's gray eyes and kept him wary because he was losing control of his feelings for her.

He awoke to find the object of his madness no longer in his bed, where he had meant to continue to make love to her. Then he sighed in the darkness and recalled that she had been a virgin.

He was the lowest of cads, for he had taken her without a thought to marriage.

What the devil was he to do now? She had left in the middle of the night for her own bed, no doubt because she realized the consequences of her actions.

Her actions? She was but an innocent in this, and he the experienced one... taking advantage of her youthful infatuation. No doubt what he had seen as brazen was merely exuberance... not very different than his brother's liveliness.

But a bevy of subtle contradictions hung about Myriah. He ran his hand through the honey-colored waves of his hair. For one thing, there was her horse. That stallion was no less than five hundred guineas!

Myriah was well provided for. Therefore, why would a _doting father_ —and apparently he was such, both by her description and her possession of such an animal—force her to marry a man she had no liking for?

Surely not for financial gain? Her clothing, her confidence, all spoke of a sophisticated London Season, and she was a ravishing young woman who must have had her pick...?

It just didn't make sense—she didn't make sense.

She certainly was overly lax regarding the proprieties, but then young women were beginning to write about the need of freedom, weren't they?

He had taken her into his arms... and what did she do? Good Lord! For a young, inexperienced maid who had every reason to hold her host in disgust for his purposely rude behavior until and including that moment, Myriah's response was prodigiously friendly—how was he to know she was naught but a virgin?

Yet, he knew that women were 'breaking out' of their shells.

Myriah's sauciness was all her own. He smiled to himself as a picture of her face came to his mind.

_Are you a fool?_ he asked himself with asperity. _Are you falling in love with a fashionable courtesan or a misguided and spoiled maid? Which is it?_

The heart does strange things to its companion, the mind. It sends it messages of need—needs the mind cannot supply. Lacking an answer, the mind retaliates on its poor friend. The sad victim of such horrendous goings-on is offered much violence and has but one outlet: sleep.

* * *

Myriah awoke early. The sun was hiding its spring glory behind clouds of white foam, and only an unrelenting glare met Myriah's searching eyes. With a sigh, she washed and dressed in the only other gown she had packed, an ivory silk with a low, scooped neckline trimmed in ivory lace.

She stood at the mirror and brushed her long red hair into shining billows that she caught at the top of her head with the brown ribbon she had found lodged from another trip in her bag. Her red curls cascaded around her heart-shaped countenance and created a look of mischievous mystery, and she smiled, well pleased with the results.

She pulled on her boots of brown kid and hurried downstairs. She had a plan of action to institute and did not wish to encounter his lordship.

Myriah closed the library door behind her and rushed across to the writing desk. She took up the quill and dipped into the ink. She then scratched out a hasty note and sealed it in a plain envelope.

A few moments later Myriah was crossing the drive and making for the stables. It was a marvelous spring day, in spite of the fact that the sun had clothed itself in froth. The sweet morning breeze enveloped Myriah, greeting her as one of nature's treasures, and she was conscious of its soothing effect.

It was past eight, and Myriah glanced back at the house worriedly. She did not want to be seen just yet. Tabby was walking his roan out of the stables, and Myriah put up her hand to call his attention. He awaited her approach, wondering what new fetch his mistress had dreamed up this time.

"Good morning, Tabby," she said, coming up to face him and handing him the white envelope.

He looked down at it and then at her. "I dessay this be for yer grandfather," he said, his face expressionless.

"Yes, Tabby, for he will have had a visit from Father by now, and I don't want him worrying about me. However, you will not give it to him in person, for you know as well as I that you would then be forced to give him my whereabouts—and I don't want to be found just yet!"

"Now, Lady Myriah, 'tis time ye went home and faced the—"

"Tabby, you will hand this note to the gatekeeper and have him take it to Grandpapa, and then you will return straight back here," she said firmly.

"Yes, m'lady."

"Oh, Tabby, don't pull a face. It will all turn out just fine... you'll see. Now... have you eaten?"

"Yes, m'lady. I served yer mother, I did, and will go on serving ye till I don't have breath... but this... this time..."

She touched his arm. "I know, Tabby... but this letter will make some of all of this right. At least they shan't worry." She sighed heavily. "You had better leave at once if you are to be back by lunch," she said sweetly and hurried away.

Kit watched from the wide window as Myriah returned hastily to his house, and his gray eyes were not smiling. She had complicated his life beyond measure... she was a mystery he needed to solve.

He had seen her put an envelope into her servant's hand. He had watched them exchanging words... and he saw Tabson ride off on his roan. What was the chit up to? What had she given her groom... and where was he going?

It suddenly dawned on him that Miss Myriah White, innocent miss or seductive courtesan, might have a purpose all her own for being at Wimborne Towers. Was her presence here because of _his_ activities in Romney Marsh? Was Myriah White _an informer?_

* * *

Myriah followed the young serving boy upstairs and opened the door to Billy's room, allowing the lad to enter. After placing the heavily laden tray on the stained wood table beside Billy's bed, the boy scurried off.

Myriah pulled open the drapes, and light flooded the room, causing Billy to shield his eyes with his good hand. He focused, found Myriah standing there, and groaned. "Oh God! She is back."

"Good morning, Mr. Wimborne. Never say you do not want your breakfast," Myriah said, lifting a silver cover off a plate filled with eggs and ham.

"Leave it and be gone, she-devil! Faith, why must you blast at me early in the morning! Let there be light, sayeth Myriah, and there is light. Let there be food, continueth the she-devil, and there is food."

"Let there be silence—or thou shalt feel the rod!" she offered in return, giggling.

They laughed in unison, and Myriah brought him the basin of wash water, placed it on the bed, dipped her fingers in it, and sprayed him with a flick of same. "Let there be cleanliness... and quick, before your food gets cold."

He laughed good-naturedly and washed, but she saw him wince as he moved, so Myriah examined his bandaged arm. The circle of brownish, dried blood looked as though it had crept into new areas, and Myriah bent over it, touching it gently.

"Billy, I think you must have bled a bit more last night," she said, a frown in her eyes.

"No doubt, with all the prodding and pulling you and m'brother had at me," he agreed, grinning at her.

"Stop dazzling me with your teeth! Seriously, Billy, you had better stay in bed today... and try not to move about too much."

"What I need is my shirtsleeve sewn back on!" retorted Mr. Wimborne "Ain't proper for you to be continually gazing on my bare arm. Might give you evil notions." He grinned at this and looked up to find his brother's twinkling eyes upon him. "The sort Kit here has," Billy added at that juncture and lookrf surprised to see the extent of Kit's sudden discomfiture.

"Careful, brat," warned his brother.

Billy chuckled and watched with interest as both Myriah and Kit went to an extraordinary amount of trouble to display to one another their total lack of interest in each other.

"I trust you slept well, Miss White," said his lordship idly as he took up a cup of coffee and sat at the foot of the bed at a distance from her.

"As well as could be expected." She wasn't letting him off the hook. His behavior was expected, but it hurt all the same. There was no affection in his eyes... which she could not help but note avoided meeting her own.

"It appears your groom has errands elsewhere this morning," Lord Wimborne said blandly, his eyes intent on her face, though her words served to pinch at something beating far too rapidly in his chest.

"Does it appear so? How... observant of you." She smiled sweetly.

"I am accounted observant, thank you, Miss White," returned his lordship.

"Oh, pray do not thank me. It was not meant as a compliment," responded the lady, her tone as honey sweet as her smile.

"Ho!" Billy cried, much amused. "Don't bandy words with my she-devil, Kit... I'm telling you, you don't stand a chance."

"Apparently not, brat. Your she-devil is quite full of words."

"Touché!" declared Billy, impressed. "Well done, m'brother."

"I am surprised you doubted me, lad," his brother said glibly.

Myriah took a huge bite of Billy's strawberry tart, concealing the fact another tart lay hidden beneath its silver cover.

"Hold there, Titan!" shouted Billy, noting the pilferage.

"It would serve you right, odious boy that you are, if I ate the entire thing! And so I shall," Myriah threatened.

"You do and you'll become a plump little partridge, wench!" Billy reached out for the tart with his free hand, getting it slopped on his palm in the process. He proceeded to busy himself with licking his fingers and regaling both Myriah and his brother on the foibles of females.

Myriah presented him with the remaining tart and sat back in her chair to enjoy herself.

Lord Wimborne, having observed the raucous scene, was hard put to keep from declaring the girl a magnificent woman worthy of his heart. She was regal in spite of their erotic encounter... scarcely displaying that she recalled the event!

He could see she was fond of his Billy and that their play was innocent. Still, she was a creature of contradictions, and now there was the matter of her groom rushing off with a message for someone.

Kit left them abruptly, saying there were matters that needed his attention, and Myriah and Billy looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Then Billy smirked at her and said, "Had a turn-up with m'brother, eh?'

"Hush, slug-a-bed, and eat," Myriah replied.

"Slug-a-bed!" the affronted Billy exclaimed. "Devil you say—'tis you that has made me so!"
~ Five ~

MYRIAH'S GRANDFATHER AND father eyed one another and sighed heavily. Everything that could be done, had been done. Everything that could be said, had been said. They were at a loss. She had left with her groom and had not contacted either of them.

A serving boy carrying a luncheon tray entered and began setting the covered plates on a stained wood table situated in the curve of a bay window overlooking the lawns of Myriah's maternal grandfather's home, Guildford House.

"Lawrence," Lord Whitney said gently, "come, let us eat together." He had respected and loved his father-in-law for too many years to allow a few bitter words to fester between them.

Lord Guildford ran a hand through his white and yellow locks and sighed heavily. He said nothing, but his expression told his son-in-law he felt much the same.

They sat down facing one another and began picking at their food.

"Don't understand Myriah all the time," her father said sadly. "Sometimes I think I've got her way of thinking, and then she is off surprising me. Never really thought that she held Sir Roland in aversion, you see. Lord... how could I? She was in his arms... kissing the fellow... as though she had her heart in it."

"Why wouldn't she marry him if she had her heart in it, Whitney?" grumbled Lord Guildford. "Never knew her not to know her own mind."

"That's the thing that has me baffled. Thought at the moment she was just being perverse because I forced her hand. But she balked—ran away. I was so certain she was on her way here, to you, that I didn't bother chasing after her until the next day." He shook his head sadly. "Thought we got along, you see. Always believed she could come to me... and if not to me then certainly to you."

"Well, if that don't beat all!" her grandfather said, losing his temper again. "How the devil could she come to you? You told me yourself you were in a rage and determined to make the announcement right there and then." He wagged a finger. "She knew once the announcement was made she was finished."

"Now, now, Lawrence. After all, she did kiss Roland."

"Confound it, man, she can't be expected to make proper comparisons if she don't kiss a fellow now and then!" Lord Guildford shouted, defending his granddaughter.

The younger man opened his eyes wide but refrained from pointing out to his father-in-law that as a grandfather he seemed to hold opinions far different from those he'd had as a father. "Well... the point is... why, then, didn't she come here to you? Always did whenever she was in a pucker."

"It's clear to me... ain't it clear to you?" grumbled Lord Guildford.

"No, it ain't! Very little of what Myriah does these days is clear to me."

"Well, she didn't want this confounded scalawag, Roland, to come after her. Can't say as I blame her, for he should not have allowed you to bully her into such a position. But that don't signify. Since Myriah can take care of herself, she don't need defending by the likes of him."

"Lawrence..."

"Hold! I'm coming to the thing. Now, there she is, on her way to me with Tabby right with her, just as he always was with her mother, and, 'Whoops!' she thinks. 'If I go to my grandfather, Papa will follow, and there'll be a row over me. Can't have that,' says Myriah to herself. She changes her plan... goes somewhere else!" his lordship said, solving the problem in his own mind.

"Thank God Tabby is with her, for he'll see no harm comes to her. But even if what you say is true, and she decided to descend upon someone else, _where_ is that, I want to know."

Lord Guildford threw down his fork, put his hands into each other, and leaned heavily upon his elbows. His mind sought other times... happier times. He had survived the death of a wife he had adored, only to be struck a few years later with the death of his only child, Myriah's mother. His losses had made him a recluse, for he preferred to remain at Guildford House where he could be comfortable, away from society.

Only one person had been able to coax him out of his quiet, protective shell, forcing him to go riding... forcing him to Brighton... even to London: Myriah.

She was the image of her mother and her grandmother before her. She was his sole interest, his joy, his only grandchild. How often he had smiled with pleasure to see her riding up his drive—his heart full with the knowledge that she adored him.

How she would tease him. "Do let us go out, Grandpapa—best of my beaux. Come, Grandpapa, the London bucks are naught to you... come with me to London."

As he remembered her last visit, a guilty pang swept over him. He had noticed she was listless, had seen the sadness in her eyes, and had somehow felt unable to help her quiet desperation. She always confided everything to him... and he could not remember her mentioning anyone with whom she had grown close in the last two years. Indeed, hadn't she said that she had lost all her best friends to marriage?

"There is no one to whom she could have gone. I know of absolutely no one," Myriah's grandfather said.

"There must be _someone_ , and at least Tabby is with her," Myriah's papa supplied hopefully.

Both men knew that Tabson was devoted to Myriah. The groom had arrived here at Guildford House when he was no older than fifteen, in rags and starving, looking for work. Lord Guildford's daughter had taken him straight to the kitchen, had him fed, bathed, clothed and taken over to her father's head groom for training. He'd worshipped his new mistress and had been one of the servants who had accompanied her to her new home when she'd married Lord Whitney. His devotion to her had carried over to Myriah.

"Aye," Lord Guildford agreed. "He won't let harm come to her if he can help it."
~ Six ~

A HEAVY KNOCKING SOUNDED, and Myriah's ears picked up as she hurried from her bedroom. Going to the ornate wooden railing overlooking the central hall, she saw Lord Wimborne had already reached the front door.

What—had he been waiting there? Why?

He opened the door wide, and she saw him as he raised a brow inquiringly. "Yes, Tabson?"

Tabby fidgeted with his woolen hat and looked uncomfortable. "'Tis Mistress... I be needing a word with her if ye please, m'lord."

"Of course, Tabson," Lord Wimborne said. "I will go and—"

"No need," Myriah said from the top of the stairs. "Tabby, I am coming right down." Myriah skipped lightly and easily down the stairs, her skirt in hand. She dismissed his lordship with a look, but he had the poor manners to ignore her meaning and remained standing interestedly at her side.

Myriah pulled a haughty face and turned to Tabby, who was still trying to catch his breath. "Let us take a private walk outdoors, Tabby."

They walked towards the rear of the house, making a very wide circle around the overgrown bushes that lined the buildings' stone walls. "Whatever has you frenzied, Tabby?"

"I took the note, like you asked—like you wanted me to—though it be just like I told ye it would. Yer papa and grandpa had a set-to over it, as I hid out in the gatekeeper's cottage as me and Lawson go back a long time and he understood the need. When he got back, he told me your father and grandfather were more than a little upset, missy."

"Oh, dear," Myriah murmured. She had hoped the note would help to calm them both down.

"But that not be what 'as me worked up, m'lady! 'Tis that man... the one you be so set on jilting."

"I am not jilting him, Tabby!" Myriah objected. "How could I be when I have not accepted him?"

"As to that I ain't one to know... not being in the petticoat line meself... but the cull tried following me, he did!" Tabby said portentously.

"What—are you saying he saw you?" Myriah shrieked.

"Never you fret none, m'lady. I twigged the covey's rig, I did!" said Tabby, dropping into street vernacular. "Saw him, but didn't let on, and lost him in Rye!" The glow in Tabby's leathery cheeks told her how proud he was of himself.

Myriah gave the elderly man a hug, causing even more color to rise to his cheeks. "Oh, you are a dear! Thank you, Tabby. I shall have to be very careful to stay out of sight, for it seems Sir Roland is a determined man!"

Myriah was worried, but she didn't wish to display this to her groom. Sir Roland had somehow tracked her, if not to Wimborne, to the vicinity. She smiled reassuringly and said, "Now, sir, go and have something to eat, and then I want you to rest for the remainder of the afternoon. Oh and, Tabby, you may not be in the petticoat line, but Cook tells me she has fixed up something special just for you. Hmmm..." she teased. "I hadn't realized you and Cook had become so... er... friendly."

Tabby's eyes dropped, and it appeared he'd discovered the grass beneath his feet looked particularly green, so green, in fact, he was unable to take his gaze from its rich color!

Myriah giggled and gave her retainer a push towards the back door before she turned and made her way to the front entrance, wondering if she was going to have to face Kit. She found the door locked, and her bright eyes narrowed. Now what was he up to? She was obliged to give the knocker a heavy clang and await an answer.

Once again Lord Wimborne opened the door, but no smile lit his gray eyes as he bowed her in. She picked up her skirts, her chin well up as she tried to pass him.

* * *

He reached out and took hold of her arm. "Miss White..."

"Release my arm, my lord," Myriah demanded harshly.

"That is not what you told me last night..." He couldn't help himself—the words were out before he realized. That was not where he wanted to go.

She sizzled with indignation, and he found himself enchanted. He couldn't tear away his gaze from her as she stomped her foot and advised him. "You, sir, are a cad... to throw that at me. Last night was evidently a mistake—as much for me as it obviously was for you. Men are not the only ones who suffer natural feelings of..." She bit her lip, and her next words felt like a slap. "...normal, healthy desire! You were there and capable... that is all."

He felt ice rush through his veins and then melt by the volcanic lava that followed. He felt his mind burn away all logic and purpose. He was there... just _there_? He took her shoulders and shook her. "You know it was more than that!"

"Do I? How would I know such a thing?"

"Enough!" he shouted as he set her away.

"I was there... you were there... it was nothing more. I expect nothing..."

* * *

Myriah's intentions just broke into a zillion pieces. All her well-laid plans to bewitch him got lost somewhere in the black recesses of her dying hopes.

His disrespect, his mistrust, and even his disgust were too apparent to be ignored, and this angered her beyond belief. She was in a rage, furious and bitter, and she wanted to lash out even more than she wanted to win him over.

He stepped away as though she were the devil incarnate, and his voice was cold. "Very well... we understand one another. I wonder at your persistence in wishing to remain under my roof, Miss White!"

"Do you? And I wonder how such a man as William Wimborne can be brother to someone like... _you!_ "

He laughed without mirth. "You are out there, sweetings, if that is who you really want. He don't find your beauty... to his particular taste!"

Myriah's eyes snapped. "Do you think not, my lord? And I think that if I wanted him, make no mistake... _he would be mine!_ As it happens, I don't wish to be a part of _your_ family!"

"Tart!" growled his lordship, enraged beyond reason. "How dare you speak so to me? Who the devil do you think you are?"

The word _tart_ slapped her like ice water in the face. Myriah fought the tears starting in her eyes. She fought the urge to advise him just _who_ she really was. She controlled her trembling hands, but her eyes reproached.

However, she chose that moment to tell him, "I could tell you how contemptible your behavior is, but I shall not. You are not _worth_ the effort. However, you have referred to me with a term normally reserved for women more deserving it. I did no more than yourself, and were I a man... I would meet you for the insult!"

She hesitated and then added, "Did you know that in spite of your boorish manners, your cavalier treatment, your inhospitality... somehow I found something in you to like..." And on a sudden sob Myriah rushed past him and up the stairs as she headed for her room.

* * *

Kit Wimborne watched her go and felt as though he were being eaten alive by parasitic insects. He was everything she said he was—a cad, a boor, inhospitable.

For the first time in his life, he was not behaving rationally, and he felt himself the lowest of fiends. She was right; he had made love to her with wild abandonment... and she had received him wantonly but oh so sweetly.

His anger had been fueled by her remarks, by her coldness, and by her off-handed behavior, but he had to admit to himself she had behaved only as rudely as he had. His heart berated his mind, and his mind tried to make excuses—but those excuses didn't feel right.

He left the house and started for the stables—a ride was what he needed to clear his head.
~ Seven ~

SIR ROLAND HAD AGREED with Lord Whitney that under the circumstances no announcement of his engagement to Myriah could be made at the ball, since she was not to be found.

In deep thought he had returned to his own lodgings, determined to make the marriage come about and wondering where the deuce she had loped off to. He had been ecstatic when he had been caught kissing Myriah and her father declared them engaged. It was what he needed to stave off the collectors.

Her father had set out the next morning for Guildford, answering his inquiry with only a short missive saying he was certain she had gone to her grandfather.

However, a recent inquiry he had discreetly made elicited the information that Myriah was not at Guildford. This was more than troubling, and he made up his mind to visit Lord Whitney at Guildford to discover where the wayward Myriah had gone. He sneered and said softly to himself, "You will have a shorter leash when you are mine, Myriah."

As Sir Roland approached the Guildford grounds, he saw someone deep in conversation with the gatekeeper. There was an envelope in his hands. Roland's sharp eyes flickered, for he recognized Myriah's groom, and a sixth sense urged him to halt his horse and watch from an obscure position, unseen by the groom.

Moments after Tabson had turned his horse around, Sir Roland inquired after Lady Myriah and was told by the gatekeeper that she had not yet arrived.

It didn't take him long to hurry after Tabson. He kept the curves of the road between him and his quarry, certain the groom would lead him to Myriah. However, it appeared Tabson's horse grew edgy having someone at its back, for suddenly Tabby took to the woods, making it impossible for Roland to follow. "Rye—why on earth would you go to Rye?" Sir Roland asked the fingerpost at the fork in the road, wondering what lay down the other road.

* * *

Myriah sobbed into the bedcovers and stopped on a sniff as she heard the front doors crash. This served to renew her anguish, and it would have lasted a considerable time had not Billy laid a hand upon her shoulder.

She jumped, startled by the touch, by the fact that he was in her room, and ashamed to be caught in such a state.

She stared at him a moment as he stood over her, looking so grave and unhappy in his brocade robe, his arm still in the sling she had fashioned for him earlier.

His hair was a mass of gold waves and in much disarray around his adorable face. "Myriah..."

"Oh, Billy..." She wiped the tears away with her hand, searching for her handkerchief, which _he_ found in his pocket and gave to her. "You... you should not be up."

"Never mind me, Myriah. Look, you and Kit had a row—I know because although I couldn't hear all of it, I heard enough. He... well... he shouldn't have said what he did, Myriah! I don't know what has gotten into him... or why he would call _you... a... what he called you_." Billy shook his head. "But... he didn't mean it."

"He meant it, and it doesn't matter." Myriah sniffed, feeling the pout form on her lips and biting them to stop it.

Billy sat beside her on the bed. "You don't understand—it has to be all the havey-cavey business he has to deal with." He sighed heavily. "He has all this... business to deal with at Wimborne and—"

"I am not dim-witted. I know you didn't get a bullet playing with dolls, Billy. Everyone knows the Romney Marsh area is buzzing with smugglers. I expect you were out on a lark."

"'Twas no lark. Look, maybe I'm wrong to trust you like this, but I mustn't let you go on thinking of m'brother as you do. He has reason to worry over what may seem naught to you."

"Billy—don't make excuses for—"

"No." He cut her off. "Not excuses. He just can't take any chances. Too many people depend on his meeting with success. You pose a threat because you are an unknown... and he don't quite swallow your story. Don't know why... but there it is." He smiled as he paused and then sighed. "Kit is really suspicious of you. Odd, but there it is. He had no cause to call you..." He coughed into his fist. "But, Myriah... you must have said something devilishly biting for him to have uttered such a thing. Never mind all that now. He'll come round... see if he don't."

However, Myriah noted that Billy's breath was coming out in short, hard gasps. She frowned at him. His color had gone from pink to white, and beads of perspiration shimmered under the gold fringe of hair covering his forehead.

She put her hand out and touched his cheek. Kit Wimborne was for the moment forgotten in her concern for Billy. "Forget it, pup. As you say, we will make it up. What does matter is that your head feels frightfully hot." And then a glance at his arm drew an involuntary cry. "Oh, Billy... you have bled again. Come on, we must get you back to your bed."

She led him protesting to his room, saw him settled against his pillows, but had a very difficult time getting him to lie down and sleep.

She wagged a finger at him as she hurried off to the kitchen, saying she would return with broth.

"Oh God!" exclaimed the patient to her retreating form. "Why must you ply me with every disgusting liquid known to man?"

True to her word, she brought and plied him with the wholesome brew before bidding him sleep. He did in fact, lay back contentedly and close his eyes, saying as she left his room, "She-devil..."

Myriah went to her room and made her way to her balcony. She stood leaning into the iron railing. She wanted to mount her horse, Silkie, and ride, but Sir Roland was lurking about somewhere—Tabson had thought he was in Rye. She couldn't take any chances.

Where was she in her life? In love with a penniless aristocrat who was no doubt _a smuggler_! And if that wasn't enough—he didn't love her back.

And what was worse, Christopher Wimborne thought her a _tart!_ And she was, for him, no more than a tart—and wanting to be again...

Romney Marsh conjured up all sorts of pictures in her mind. It was where French brandy and silks were smuggled into the country free of duty charges. No doubt, Kit saw himself as a Robin Hood, helping the locals earn a living. Ha!

Smuggling had for centuries flourished in both Kent and Sussex, but now with the Napoleonic War, new efforts had been instituted to deter and eliminate the wide-scale smuggling along the English coast. No easy task, for an official coastguard had not yet been set up, and villagers were closed-mouthed when the _excisemen_ came to call.

Land smugglers were allowed to pass with their cargo, taking their wares to taverns where not only their goods were housed but also many of the 'gentlemen', as the smugglers were called. Farmers allowed them passage and in return received a length of silk for their ladies and a bottle of brandy for themselves.

However, with the war in progress, the aristocracy no longer winked at the activity since the French were the enemy of the Crown and these goods were being bought from the French with English guineas. Napoleon, on the other hand, was hungry for British gold and looked the other way when an English smuggler came across the Channel, and so the smugglers or as they had become to be known, the 'gentlemen' continued their dangerous activities.

Myriah thought about all this and worried out loud, "Oh, faith... whatever will happen?"

* * *

The sun was on its way down when Myriah awoke in her chair from a short doze. Her lids fluttered open over her eyes, and she stood and stretched. Time to look in on Billy!

She crossed the hall and eyed him from the doorway as she went in. Something was wrong...

"Billy?"

He didn't answer. She went to him and saw that he was in a fitful sleep and that his face was moist with perspiration.

"Good God... what has happened? Oh no!" Myriah cried, much upset. She rushed about the room, tipped some water into a washbasin, mixed rosewater with it, and brought it to the bed, where she began wiping down his face and chest, clucking all the while.

Billy opened his eyes and made a feeble attempt to smile. "Ah, the she-devil is back..."

"Yes, and though I am leaving for just a moment, I will be back presently with yet another horrid thing for you to drink."

He pulled a face but didn't answer, and that worried Myriah even more as she hurried to the kitchen and prepared a tisane.

Another few moments and she had it to his lips. "Come on pup, drink this..."

"Perhaps he should just rest," suggested a deep, authoritative voice from the doorway.

Myriah turned and grimaced. "Don't worry, my lord—'tis not poison."

He moved in on her and gave her a dark look as he touched her arm. "Don't be a fool. That is not what I meant."

She ignored him and smiled at Billy to coax, "Do you think you can manage this, Billy?"

"Aye... give me the dratted witches' brew."

She turned to Kit. "Really, my lord, I am not a doctor, and he needs one— _now."_

"No doctor!" Billy shouted hoarsely as he tried to sit up.

"No, Billy! Relax, do... I won't fetch him if you do not like, but I so wish you would accept to have one now, right now," she soothed.

She turned to Kit, wondering why he didn't take a hand in this decision, and found him deep in thought. All at once he spoke to his young brother. "I am leaving you in Miss White's care, and if she needs to bring in the doctor... so she shall—do you hear me, William?"

"I hear you," Billy said on a low voice.

Kit turned to Myriah. "Would you allow me a word...?"

She nodded and followed him into the hallway, where he reached for and held her hand. She didn't want to, but she pulled her fingers from his and looked squarely into his gray eyes. His hands dropped to his side.

* * *

This was not how he wanted to begin, with her pulling away from him. Damnation! Her blue-green eyes drove him to distraction. Such 'speaking' eyes... one fancied himself hearing her thoughts... and yet... there was a lie hanging about her he could not penetrate.

"Miss White..." he started lamely.

"Miss White, is it? Not... ah... what did you call me...?"

"I am a heathen fool... forgive me. I have no excuse for my poor behavior and don't know how to make it right, other than offer my deepest, most heartfelt apology."

_Well done_ , she thought to herself, but to him she said, "You called me a tart because you hold one standard for a man and another for a woman. I take exception to that."

"It is not I that holds the standard, but society..." He wanted to kick himself. What was wrong with him? He was again making a mess of it.

"Ah, of course... and so it is not you who calls me a tart, but society?"

"Damnation, Myriah!" he snapped. The word _tart_ hurt his ears. How could he have called her that, feeling as he did about her? "What would you have from me?"

"Nothing, my lord—I want nothing I must ask for," retorted the lady hotly. She gave him her back and started towards her bedroom.

Kit wanted to grab her and take her into his arms. He shouldn't feel what he felt—he shouldn't want her as madly as he did—but the fact was if he weren't required elsewhere, he would not have let her move off.

He did call after her, "Very well, madam. If you will excuse me, I have business in town and shall not be home for dinner." He turned and walked towards the stairs.

Myriah turned on him. "Just a moment, my lord!" she called indignantly. "Your brother lies here ill with fever... _and you are going out_?"

Kit's eyes troubled over, "It cannot be helped, madam, and I know Billy is in good hands—the best in fact. If I know _nothing else_ about you, that much I do know."

"He needs a doctor. Shall I send Fletcher?"

"Fletcher will be with me. However, do send for a doctor if his fever doesn't break within the hour. I know your groom will be discreet, and I will see that he is well paid."

She stomped her foot at him, and he had to restrain the smile that crept to his face as he turned and left her standing there.

* * *

An hour later, Myriah leaned towards Billy, her face puckered with concern. How could Kit have left at such a time?

She set aside her plate of unfinished dinner and touched Billy's forehead. He was still hot—too hot.

She had already sent Tabson to Hastings to fetch the doctor, as this had gone on too long. He needed medicine she didn't have, basilicum for one.

She got up, prepared a basin of water, added the rosewater to it, and dipped the cloth in it. She then placed it on Billy's forehead for a few moments before lifting it off.

He moved fretfully in his sleep and knocked his arm about. It was beginning to bleed again, and Myriah wanted to collapse in a heap and cry.

Time played with her pitilessly as the minutes dragged by and Tabby hadn't returned yet with the doctor. She realized that in their short time together, she already adored Billy as a brother, and the thought she could lose him to infection set her to wringing her hands.

"Never say the she-devil don't feel quite the thing..." Billy said weakly.

She felt her neck snap she looked around so quickly, and she jumped over and nearly hugged him to death in her relief to see him out of his delirium. "Billy, you odious creature..."

"Aye, but all this... not precisely m'fault."

"Yes, it is. If you hadn't been shot in the first place—" she started.

He cut her off, saying, "It was worth it just to make the acquaintance of a she-devil." He smiled.

She touched his cheek. "Silly pup!" She sighed and added, "I have sent Tabby to Hastings to fetch a doctor."

"Hastings? Not far enough—we are too well known."

"Yes, but Tabby is not."

"Point to you."

"Yes... once the doctor is here, we will make certain he is honor-bound not to prattle about you or your wound."

A heavy thumping at the front door startled them both, and Myriah eyed him questioningly. He shrugged, and she offered, "Well, I'll just go play butler and send the scalawag off. Calling at such an hour!"

Billy beamed but then frowned. "Don't like this, Myriah... best stay here with me and we'll ignore it."

"No... doesn't sound like they mean to be ignored." Myriah sighed, picked up a glass-encased candle, and made her way below stairs. She set the candle down on a nearby table and pulled open one of the double doors, afraid it might be Sir Roland on the other side.

Facing her was a wiry man clothed in dark superfine and an old-fashioned, low three-cornered hat.

"Yes, sir, may I help you?" Myriah inquired cautiously.

"No, ma'am, my business is with Lord Wimborne," said the gentleman.

She frowned, for the man spoke with a note of authority, and his voice held a hint of London in its inflection. "I am sorry... he is not here at the moment."

"And who might you be?"

"I am a relative... his cousin," Myriah offered hesitantly.

"Right then, miss, tell him if you will that Mr. Dibbs needs to see him... as soon as possible." And then as an afterthought, he asked, "Would young Mr. Wimborne be at home?"

Myriah eyed him with misgiving. What the deuce was all of this? "He is... but he is unwell and resting in bed."

"Would you be so kind as to advise him that I need a word with him? Perhaps... I could come up?"

Myriah, unsure went to Billy and told him that a Mr. Dibbs wanted a word with him. Billy's face brightened, and he said, "Myriah, please... send the fellow up."

She did so and hovered in the background as Mr. Dibbs entered Billy's room and made his greetings.

"Confound it, young William... sorry I am to see you laid so!" the small man offered with a shake of his head, "but ain't the time to mull over it now. Need to see his lordship... must... get back." He jerked his head in the direction of Myriah. "Could we be having a bit of privacy?"

"Never mind, what you can say to me can be heard by Myriah," said Billy, staunchly loyal and making Myriah feel a queen.

"Eh? Very well. You know... it is very important I speak with your brother before I head back. Where is he, do you know?"

"He has a meeting at the Mermaid tonight. You can find him there," Billy said, frowning.

"No, I can't! Don't want to be seen in public with him—wouldn't do!"

Myriah's delicate brows went up. What sort of individual was he that he mustn't be seen with Kit in public? This was more than interesting, and she studied the man carefully.

"Must send someone for him," Dibbs said.

"Can't—there is no one here, and I am afraid she-devil here won't let me budge out of bed. Nothing for it, Dibbs. You'd best risk it and go there."

"Just a moment! I can fetch Lord Wimborne home if you like," Myriah offered.

"No, you can't, stoopid!" Billy replied disdainfully.

"You are a woman!" Mr. Dibbs stuck in, obviously shocked. "Can't go into the Mermaid at this time of night—wouldn't do and wouldn't be safe."

"As to not being safe Kit will be there, so it couldn't be safer," Myriah suggested.

"No, Miss. Besides, 'twould draw too much attention to his lordship... don't want to create a stir," Dibbs said.

"But it would be all right for a lad to go and fetch him... so I will just have to turn into a male," Myriah said, crossing the room to Billy's wardrobe closet.

"Ha! Listen to her... she-devil that she is... change into a man... ha," twittered Billy, falling limply against the pillows.

"Hush, Billy, or you shall start bleeding all over again! Just wait!" With that she disappeared into the dressing room armed with an assortment of Billy's clothing.

When she reappeared some ten minutes later, she was wearing a brown riding jacket that hung loosely about her shoulders, a linen shirt, brown baggy breeches, and her own knee-high riding boots. She dove once again into his closet and produced an old brown hat of sorts and stuffed her hair into its crown before turning to face them.

Billy's roar of laughter ended in a fit of coughing, bringing down Myriah's rebukes upon his head. However, Mr. Dibbs rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Tell you what, Miss—sling a greatcoat over your shoulders and hide the fit of the jacket, and you just might do." He rubbed his chin. "That is, if no one looks too closely..."
~ Eight ~

MYRIAH DIDN'T WASTE any more time. She bade them farewell, passed Tabby and the doctor at the front door, saying as she clasped the doctor's gloved hands, "Thank you, I think the fever has passed... thank you for coming," and leaving him to wonder who the strange boy was.

Tabby stood with his mouth agape, as he had no choice but to lead the doctor indoors and so could not follow her.

She headed for the stables, slipped on her tack, led her stallion outdoors, and nimbly mounted him. "Come on then, Silkie... I have missed being on your back."

He nodded his head as though in agreement and made a short whinny noise advising her he was pleased to have her there, and off they went at a slow trot.

Clouds made an eerie frame about the moon, and their jagged lengths formed a dimming mist, allowing only a hazy glow to soften the blackness of the night.

Myriah had only sketchy directions, but it was easy enough to follow the main road once she got to the fork in the road and the fingerpost sign.

The village streets were only a five-minute trot down the pike, and all was quiet by the dim light of a torchlight on either side of the Lands Gate entrance to the ancient town.

In spite of her earlier bravado, Myriah was suddenly tense, and her gut was telling her to be on the 'lookout' for anything untoward. Good Lord—what would her father say now? What _wouldn't_ he say?

She slipped off her horse and spoke to him gently, soothing herself as well as him. "Now then, love... easy, sweet darling... come then... that's it... come with Myriah..." She tugged at his leading rein, and he objected to the pull by bobbing his handsome black head powerfully in an up-and-down motion that caused her to giggle and reprimand him. "No, Silkie, no—this is no time to balk... be my good darling." So saying, she urged him up the cobbled slope towards the Land Gate entrance to East Cliff Street.

They passed through the medieval archway, and she eyed the stone-pillared towers that flanked both sides of the street. Land Gate dated back centuries, and there were many tales in its moss-covered stones—a wealth of them—but this was not the time for such musings, she told herself.

Silkie's shod hooves clopped along the deserted street and echoed loudly in the stillness. Myriah looked around warily as they passed stores and narrow, darkened alleyways on their path down to High Street.

She gave a sigh of relief as she came to High Street. She pulled out the crude map Dibbs had drawn for her. Yes, this was the way, and she continued down High Street towards the center of the village.

The sound of men at pleasure began teasing her ears, and Myriah again was assailed with doubt.

She looked into the narrow alleyway that led to the inn's rear entrance and stableyard with hesitation. The alley was just wide enough for her and Silkie to pass. It was lined with two-story buildings, with only a few brightly lit windows giving off their light. The sounds of revelry, fuller now in its proximity, made her tense with fear, for she had never before gone into such a place and had never before even thought of going alone down such a path.

A man popped his head out of an open window just above her, and Myriah jumped, startled by the unexpectedness of the action. He laughed coarsely. "Fidgety lad, ain't ye?"

She ignored both the man and his taunt and continued to lead her horse up the sloped alleyway to where a large, square barnyard stood.

Hostlers came scurrying out of everywhere anxious to be of service, hoping to receive a sizable gratuity for their service. She gave Silkie's reins into the hands of one of the boys and dropped a coin in his palm.

"Water him and hold him ready for me. I shall return shortly," she said in a voice she felt was credibly masculine.

And as he was far more interested in the coin she gave him than in the huskiness of her voice, he scarcely glanced at her.

Myriah attempted a lad's swagger as she stalked into the inn, passing through a rear small tavern room where several older men mildly glanced her way before she entered the long hallway.

She had not seen Kit in the small room, nor did she find him in the sitting room to her right. A quick glance out the hall window into the enclosed courtyard told her that he was not lurking about outside. She was worrying over the problem as she turned and walked into the belly of the substantially sized innkeeper.

"Eh, now, laddie—what be yer hurry? Ye look a bit young to go sauntering free as ye please into my ken." The man wiping his hands on his white apron looked friendly enough.

"Oh, if you please... I am looking for Lord Wimborne," Myriah said, hoping her voice would pass.

He eyed her a moment, obviously thinking her a sickly looking lad. "Got business with 'is lordship, 'ave ye? Well now, why don't ye give me yer name, and I'll go inform 'im you be 'ere wanting a word with 'im."

"Very well... tell him Master White needs him immediately."

The innkeeper went off in the direction of the main tavern room at the end of the corridor and left "Master" White to pace the hall in what might have seemed to any observer a most frenzied fashion.

As it happened, Sir Roland, just as Tabby had thought and advised her, was not only in the area but had taken up residence at the Mermaid Inn, and he chose that moment to round the corner in the hallway and stop short some ten feet away from Myriah.

She nearly gasped out loud as she turned her face from him and moved into one of the tavern's smaller rooms. All she could think was that Sir Roland was only a few feet away. What was she to do? What if he recognized her through her disguise?

And then she looked up and saw Kit in the far corner with Fletcher at his side, deep in conversation with another man. He looked up as though he felt her gaze, and their eyes locked. She saw at once that he became concerned for Billy, and as he took long, hard strides to her and held her by her shoulders, she squeaked out, "No! Billy will do... the doctor is with him... right now."

"Then what the deuce are you doing here... like this?" he hissed.

"Dibbs... he came... needs you..."

Kit and Fletcher, who had sidled over in time to hear the last of this exchange, exchanged glances, and Fletcher said, "Oi'll be getting the horses and meet ye in the courtyard."

"Aye..." Kit said as he took Myriah's hand and led her outside, heedless of what people might think to see him holding a boy's hand as though it were a treasure.

Myriah was conscious of the trembling shivers his touch always made her experience, but out of the corner of her eye she saw something—someone else. _Sir Roland._

He had followed them outside, and now Sir Roland was looking at her black stallion... and Sir Roland had often seen her black to know...

She was undone!

* * *

Kit's mind worked hard. What was Dibbs doing at Wimborne? He thought everything had been settled on his last trip to London. What had gone wrong? What could have brought Dibbs here in the dead of night?

Just before Myriah had appeared, he had asked the men that served him to wait on him for the final details of their next crossing, which would not be until the night after this, when the moon would be at its peak. They needed enough men ready to unload their cargo when they returned, and the timing was crucial.

And with all that to deal with... Myriah was still forever infiltrating his thoughts. By all that was holy, he couldn't stop thinking about her. He saw her face at every turn. She was a constant, a need that rubbed him raw.

She played around in his head, turning up when he least expected it, and now here she was in the flesh, dressed as a boy! Would she ever cease to amaze him? He wanted to lecture her, but damn, she had come through on this one.

Just who was this Myriah White?

* * *

Myriah's thoughts were a jumble as she rode Silkie in a fast-paced trot in an effort to keep alongside Kit's dark bay gelding.

She was in the suds. Sir Roland would inquire about who Kit was, and then he would know she was at Wimborne. Perhaps he would think she was on a lark... pretending to be a lad?

What was she going to do? If such was not enough to distract her, there was Kit, whom she loved with all her heart. His voice went through her, tickled feelings of need, and she wanted to tell him who she was... but she couldn't. She wanted him first to declare himself, so she could be sure he loved her... not her wealth.

He was in trouble; she knew that much, but nothing more. Who was this odd man, Dibbs, and what had he to do with Kit? What was Kit doing at the Mermaid Inn? Who had been with him in the tavern? Why had Fletcher been with him? Absolutely no answers presented themselves to Myriah before they turned onto the drive that led to Wimborne's front double doors.

Kit had not said a word to Myriah since his first questions, and except for a sideways glance every now and then, she had not been sure he cared whether or not she and Fletcher kept up the pace. However, he was off his horse and scooping her down from hers before she realized what he was about.

Surprised by his sudden attention, she eyed him shyly, unsure of herself and feeling unattractive in her boy's attire.

He smiled and took her hand. "You look a veritable child. Why had I not seen that before?" he whispered softly before turning to Fletcher. "I am sorry, Fletch, to leave you to see to the horses on your own, but I must get Miss White indoors and meet with Dibbs."

"Aye, that I will, though yah best be nobbut a moment, fer there's no tellin' how long thay'll wait on us," Fletcher grumbled.

"Don't be such a woman, Fletcher!" His lordship laughed and took Myriah's arm, leading her into the house.

"Wisht, wisht, that won't hold!" returned his groom, walking all three horses away with a shake of his head.

Kit rushed up the stairs, pulling Myriah with him, and he looked as though he was in high spirits. She had no notion what had occurred to send him soaring but was heartily thankful that he was at least at peace with her.

When they reached Billy's room, Myriah stopped suddenly and looked inquiringly into his face. "My lord, I believe you will want to be private with Mr. Dibbs, and I am sure Billy will want to be in on the conversation. Therefore, I shall retire to my room until such time as I am needed."

He looked down into her face and smiled, and the glow she saw in his gray eyes set her heart racing. "Will you never, ever cease to surprise me, sweetings?"

She had no answer to this question and thought that this was the moment to retreat, which she did. Now Myriah was as curious as any female, and the questions that taunted her needed answers, yet she was often governed by instinct, and 'twas instinct that made her retreat suddenly.

She sat in the darkness and waited for a knock to sound on her door, smiling to herself. Finally, yes, finally, the high and mighty Viscount of Wimborne Towers was beginning to find her not so very hard to like! She had done him a service and had asked nothing in return, not even the chance of listening to their secrets.

The knock sounded at her door and she breathed a sigh of relief—at last.

She rushed across the blackness to stand looking up at Kit's beloved face as he raised a brow, and she was struck by his larger-than-life quality. When his voice came, she felt herself tremble.

"Why were you sitting in the darkness, Myriah?"

"What? Oh, it helps me to think at times." Her voice was barely audible.

"And you have so much to think about?" inquired Kit, standing too close, and looking at her in a way that made it difficult for her to think at all.

"Faith! Can _you_ ask such a thing? Here you are... a total mystery... and I _am_ human. So, yes, I must admit to my curiosity—in fact, 'tis threatening to overcome me."

He laughed good-naturedly and flicked her nose. "Thank you, Myriah, for everything... for the questions you don't ask... and for what you did tonight, though, in truth, I never want you to try such a thing again. 'Tis too dangerous, and I don't like you going about at night alone... but I do thank you. It was more than anyone else would do under the circumstances."

"You have this lamentable habit of exaggerating, my lord," she said breathlessly. "I don't know what to make of you. One moment you think me some sort of monstrous female seducing young lads with bullet holes in their arms, and then, suddenly I am a heroine of stupendous qualities." She giggled. "My dear sir... I am quite certain I did what anyone would do, given no other choice—and I _had_ no other choice!"

"I see you must have a very peculiar notion of me indeed. But let it go for the present." Kit said, taking both her hands, "Thank you, Myriah... I know what this must look like to you, and perhaps soon I will be able to explain." He put her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes as he kissed them, and Myriah's body went into overdrive.

"Come, Myriah," he said softly, leading her across the hall.

They entered Billy's room and were greeted with a sunny smile. "Never say you've brought _her_ back in here, Kit! Hang it, man... why would you want to do that to me—didn't I tell you she's a devil? Even let my broth get cold, she did," Billy accused with a wide grin.

"Odious brat—if you don't have a care, I shall not make it up to you by bringing you another bowl."

"She-devil... that is precisely what I have hoped for. If you don't bring me some meat, Kit, she'll be pushing that mush at me. What sort of a brother leaves his own flesh and blood to the dealings of such a female!" Master William protested amiably.

"Hold, hold, Billy—if I brought you meat, how the deuce would you slice it with your one bad arm?" offered his lordship grinning.

"Bring me the meat... I'll find a way."

"Oh, very well. If _you will eat that_... perhaps I shall fetch it, and if you are very, very good perhaps I shall even slice it for you," Myriah offered sweetly.

Myriah suddenly remembered Mr. Dibbs and looked about, asking in a tone of surprise, "Wherever is Mr. Dibbs?"

Kit cast his brother a look of warning and hastened to respond, "He was due back at his destination and thought it best to ride off at once."

"Right. I know very well that he is from London, and how he could return there on the same steed is beyond me."

"Damnation, Kit... I told you—too knowing by far." Billy laughed.

"What—because I knew he was from London? He spoke like one born and bred."

"And being from London yourself, of course, you recognized that?" asked Kit, putting up a brow in a manner she could not mistake.

"Yes, I've spent time in London. Picking up some knowledge of the great city's dialect is not difficult and does _not_ take much time, my lord."

"I see," his lordship said quietly.

"Well, so he is returning to London tonight. How will he manage? His poor horse must be ready to fall...?"

"Dunce!" Billy declared, laughing. "He is using posting house horses, changes 'em at the posting house at Tunbridge Wells."

"Oh!" Myriah said. "Of course. I had forgotten about that."

"Well, my Billy, I leave you in the best of capable hands," his lordship said suddenly.

Myriah turned open eyes on Kit, realizing that was what Fletcher had been mumbling about. They still had business to take care of. Still she asked, "You... you are going out again...?"

"I must. I left some rather unfinished business at the inn. There is no hope for it... I must go back. I shouldn't be too long and will relieve you here when return." He touched her hand, and a shiver shot through her arm. She felt him study her, and he laughed suddenly; it was a youthful, joyous sound. Its music thrilled her heart.

Billy's eyes went from his brother to his nurse, and a slow smile curved his lips.

Myriah eyed him narrowly and asked, "What is so funny?"

"You and m'brother!" he answered, unashamed.

"Horrid puppy!"

"Me horrid?" He shook his head. "Lord keep me... it seems I'm bound to have a she-devil for a sister."

Kit smiled but said nothing to this.

"Nonsense," Myriah returned with heightened color

"Said you meant to stay awhile—didn't know it was going to be a _lifetime!"_

"Oh, Billy Wimborne... quiet... _sister_... lifetime... I haven't a clue what it is you are going on about."

"Stuff!" he retorted, unabashed.
~ Nine ~

SIR ROLAND FOLDED his greatcoat over the empty wooden chair beside a small corner table. His curly-brimmed top hat and white gloves followed before he took up his seat. It was late, and most of the Mermaid's patrons had made their way home.

He glanced around the half-empty tavern, idly stroking his chin, which was just beginning to shadow. Strange, thought he, still immersed with his problem, very strange indeed. What would that boy be doing with Myriah's Silkie—and he was certain it had been Myriah's horse.

He had never before known her to allow anyone the use of Silkie!

Something was off here... something tickled his mind with an answer, but he couldn't quite grasp it. An odd boy... with a greatcoat that was extremely too large and too well made for a peasant, and breeches that looked as though they belonged to an older brother.

This and many other questions occupied his busy mind, proposing several fascinating possibilities, and it was not until the uniformed young man standing before him had coughed deprecatingly several times that Sir Roland looked up into the shallow eyes of Corporal Stone.

"Pardon?" said Sir Roland, frowning up at the young man and wondering what he could want with him.

"So sorry to trouble you, sir, but may I sit with you for a moment?" His voice held an urgent note.

Sir Roland's brow went up, and a haughty look commanded his features. "I am certain you have your reasons for wanting to do so, but I do assure you that while I have no objection to company ordinarily, I must decline your offer as I chose this table for the privacy it affords," Sir Roland said.

The young Corporal Stone looked a bit harried. "To be sure, sir, I understand. However, if you would but allow me... there is a very good reason for my intrusion." He took the liberty at this point of pulling up a nearby chair while he cast Sir Roland another anxious glance.

"Very well," he answered reluctantly, as he had no liking for excisemen; however, his curiosity was beginning to nibble at him.

Stone breathed a sigh of relief and straddled the chair he had appropriated, leaning forward over the chair back and peering intently at Sir Roland's countenance across the table. "'Tis this, sir—I'm on government business tonight. If you will but cast your eyes in the direction of your left shoulder, you will see a table full of coveys."

Sir Roland sighed heavily and turned his head slightly in the direction indicated. He shrugged a shoulder and returned a bored countenance to Stone. "Evidently a rough lot... but they appear no more so than any other fishermen I have seen. Really, sir, I fail to see what all this has to do with me."

"Fishermen? Lord love ya... 'tain't so... though they would have us think so. Look, it's not anything to do with you at all. Fact is, I know you are new in Rye! Made it my business to know. That's why I can trust you with this much. You've got no call _not_ to cooperate with me. You see, sir," Stone explained, lowering his voice and yet managing to convey the portentousness of the information he was about to impart, "those coveys are, I have no doubt whatsoever... _smugglers!_ "

Sir Roland's brow shot up, and his head went around involuntarily for another look at the alleged _tidesmen._

Stone, satisfied that he had impressed the nobleman, grunted in a tone meant to convey his momentary gratification.

Intrigued, Sir Roland's eyes brightened, and he sat up, now ready to continue the conversation. "Upon my word—never say you are about to make an arrest tonight?"

"Arrest?" young Stone said, opening his eyes wide. "Bless me, no!" His voice took on an inflection of disgust. "Haven't the proof, you see."

Sir Roland stifled a yawn, and as he observed the innkeeper crossing the room and heading their way, he put up a hand for service. The tavern keeper caught Roland's motion and sidled over, sniffing affably. "What be yer needs, gents?"

"A bumper of ale," Sir Roland said.

"Make it two, Thomas," added the landsman.

"Aye," the innkeeper agreed, going off.

Sir Roland turned back to Stone, and the look of boredom had descended over him again; he had some serious thinking to do, and what did he care about smugglers and such? "I am certain you will think me a dunce, but it is still not clear what all this"—he languidly waved his hand in the air—"has to do with me."

"Eh, sorry, thought I had explained, sir. You see, I need to keep m'eyes on 'em! Best vantage point be this table. That way I can observe all their comings and goings. Traitorous lot, the pack of 'em!"

Sir Roland resigned himself. "Yes, I suppose, but..."

Stone's eyes flew suddenly to the narrow doorway, and Roland followed the man's glance. There stood the man locals had identified as Lord Wimborne, his uncovered honey-colored hair falling in waves around his ruggedly handsome face.

* * *

Kit's tall figure shouldered a two-tiered caped riding cloak whose folds were negligently slung back across one shoulder, exposing a superbly cut riding jacket and tight-fitting breeches of the same material. His Hessians were covered with dust from his recent hard riding, and his eyes were alight with merriment and more—the quality of command.

"Back are ye, m'lord?" the innkeeper cried loudly as he spied Kit in the entranceway and hurried over to stand before him. He dropped his voice to a whisper, and his words tripped out quickly, his eyes darting sideways as he spoke. "Thought ye ought to know. That flash sitting wit the bloody revenuer... he was asking after ye jest when ye rushed off before."

Lord Wimborne's gray eyes found Sir Roland, though his glance in that worthy's direction was perceptible to no one. "Thank you, Thomas. I'll be taking the blue room. See to it that we are not disturbed."

"Aye," Thomas said as he moved off.

Kit then glanced at his men, sitting patiently around the oak table beneath the observation of the excisemen, as several of the government agents were scattered about the room.

His men were to all outward signs every bit what they appeared to be: big, hard-working, hard-living fishermen. Not a word or another look passed between them and Lord Wimborne.

Kit moved agilely with Fletcher silently at his back as he made for the corridor to the stairs.

Stone saw the table of 'fishermen' suddenly emptied; open-mouthed, he watched them file out of the tavern room.

He got to his feet and rushed after them, noting with a grunt of annoyance that any hope of discovering anything of use was put to the stake. There would be no getting near enough to overhear anything they said, for any room they occupied would be well guarded against eavesdroppers.

He gave a chair in his path a vicious kick, which sent it hurling and brought some attention upon himself, before he returned to Sir Roland's table. Thomas, the innkeeper, gave him a long, speculative look as he slammed the two pints of ale down on the table and waited for his money.

Stone produced the coin but reached out and held the innkeeper by the arm. "Thomas, you know what is afoot tonight. Spill it out, man—'tis your duty as an Englishman!"

" _You be daft, man_. Ain't got a notion what ye be blabbering about!" Thomas snapped, pulling away his arm and walking off.

"No notion... no notion at all!" Stone spluttered irritably. "You'd all sell your souls if there were a profit in it. They are all closed-mouthed about the _gentlemen._ Not the name I would call these damn smugglers _."_

"Lookee 'ere!" the innkeeper shouted from across the wide, now almost empty room. "There ain't no call for the likes of ye to talk to me that way. 'Tis none of m'affair what me customers do, and that's a fact. Onct they pay their due, makes no ha'porth o'difference to me where they go... or what they be doing."

The exciseman, barely twenty-five, eager, ambitious, and drastically impaired by the close-mouthed community of a smugglers' village, was continuously put out by such attitudes. He was stifled by a job with little reward and little chance of success. What he needed was a royal coastguard to aid him. What they had were but a few revenue cutters—simply not enough.

He bent over his ale and began cursing the fates for his no-win job. What he needed was a break... just one break, and then he'd have 'em.

Sir Roland's interest had revived with Lord Wimborne's emergence on the scene. He sat watching the young exciseman, for now, here was something he might be able to use to help him in his own situation.

He had not noticed Kit glance his way; however, he had most definitely been quick to note that the so-called fishermen—alias Rye smugglers, or _gentlemen_ , as they preferred—had indeed picked themselves up and followed in Lord Wimborne's wake. Somehow Myriah was connected in this... perhaps his lordship had a sister she was visiting? It would take looking into. "Tell me, did I hear that the gentleman who preceded your smugglers upstairs was in fact Lord Wimborne?"

"Aye—the devil!" Stone answered sourly.

"Does he, do you know, have a sister? I am trying to recall the family...?" Sir Roland asked casually.

"A sister—no, a younger brother, though... a part of all this as well."

"But no sister..." Sir Roland frowned and nibbled at his lower lip.

"No, which makes it all a bit odd—them having that young beauty, their cousin, staying with them, and no other female in the house, but no doubt she has her maid with her..."

"Young female, you say?"

"Aye, flaming beauty she is... Miss Myriah White." Stone sighed plaintively and added, "I am sure she doesn't know what they are up to... an angel she is."

Sir Roland hid his smirk—nothing could be further from the truth. An angel indeed—hiding out with a couple of bachelors? Just what was she doing?

"Can't bandy about the Wimborne name though... there would be the devil to pay if m'superiors got wind of it. Wimborne is an old name in this area—carries quite a bit of weight."

"Then it is surprising the present lord would mingle with a pack of... fishermen here at the inn," said Roland, luring the exciseman into revealing more.

"That ain't the heart of it, man—why a fellow would have to have his upper works out of order not to realize 'tis Wimborne himself that leads 'em across the Channel on their dirty business."

"That, my good man is a very serious and dangerous accusation," Roland cautioned, still baiting.

"Aye, that it is, and _that_ is why I ain't made it official. Already told you I ain't daft. I ain't the brightest fellow ever wore the uniform, but I'd have to be a dunce to go off half-cocked aiming a finger without the proof. I know what he's up to... got all the reason in the world, he does. Why he is up to his head in debt... has been dished this past year... maybe more? How else would he get the blunt to stave off the dunning?"

Sir Roland, no stranger to debt, was struck with a momentary feeling of pity for Wimborne. However, it soon passed. "I see."

"Do you? No, how could you, being gentry yourself?" Stone sighed and took a long drink of his ale. "We nearly had him the other night—the young brother that is." He shook his head. "We were so close."

"Do you mean that you actually observed the brother in the act of landing a cargo?" Roland said in a startled whisper.

"Dash it, man... nearly! The young scalawag is in league with the devil himself, he is, for I am certain we put a hole in him! Knew it—saw the line of him, saw him slump over in his saddle, but then there he stood, hale and uppity as ever!"

"Hang it, Stone! Either you shot him or you didn't." Sir Roland frowned and began losing patience.

"That's the point—the very tear in the tale. Can't be sure anymore, for while my men could have sworn 'twas young Wimborne. We had the lantern up, and they thought they saw his face in its light... but then, there he was, no bullet hole to poke a finger at." He shrugged. "And we did find his hat near the spot."

"Devil you say—that seems proof to me."

"Aye, so it did to me, but then came the lovely. She claimed, and I do believe her, angel that she is, that she lost the hat on her way to town to have it repaired."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Sir Roland said on a low thoughtful note. Now what did he have here? Enough to force her hand or ruin her—that was what!

* * *

Kit glanced over at his man, Fletcher, staunch as ever, peaked wool cap pulled low over his forehead and leaning up against the wooden door of the room he and his men presently occupied. No one was getting past Fletcher.

He smiled to himself as he brought their meeting to a close. "Well now, there you have it, lads," he said, putting a hand through his air and setting a foot on the chair in front of him. "We cross tomorrow night for the last time—hopefully. Dibbs has come with the last of it, I do sincerely hope."

A heavyset man, clothed in a dark wool shirt and a weathered dark jacket, pushed his chair back and eyed Kit with the only eye left to him, having lost the other in service of His Majesty some years ago. "Begging your pardon, m'lord—yah seen us through a fetch or two, and you've got _me_ through more than I can count, and I'm thinking ye'll see us through a good sight more without us getting twigged, and damn the blunt has been good, but I don't like the sound of this last job."

"Trust me, Fry. You always have, and you won't be sorry this time either," Kit said on an irritated note.

"Hold, m'lord." This came from a young man in similar worn, dark clothing. "Fry here be in the right of it. We trust ye with our lives we do, and coz 'tis so is why we vote to follow ye as we 'ave. I got four young brats wit their mouths open all the time, and another one cooking. 'Tain't any way I can feed 'em without the ready, and this way be as good as any other, but this last... gives me a fear, it does."

Kit shook his head. "Is that the way of it? After all these years—you don't trust me to see you safely home? Even you, Fry?" He waited just long enough to allow Fry to expostulate before slamming his fist down hard. "Damnation! Yes, I saw you through a time or two. Pulled you out of hell, Fry—in the Pyrenees. Do you think I'd throw you into it this side of freedom? Hang me before I do! What do you all think—I'd leave you to fend for yourselves? What sort of paltry covey do you take me for? You, Bilkes, with your brats—when this is done, you'll take care of Wimborne grounds, just as you did before we started this heathenish business—just as your father did before you. And you, Fry—you'll work Wimborne stables just as I promised you when we sold out. All you damn fools will work Wimborne... just as you have always done! Stupid lot of brutes I've got for myself," Kit said, grinning at them.

The man called Fry put a fist to his heart. "Aye, m'lord, ye be in the right of it, but what of the Winchelsea boys? They won't like us pulling out when we do."

"Those lads are a hard lot. They have always been smugglers... they always will be smugglers. Don't think they were living on the thirty or forty kegs _we_ passed from time to time! They went in with us for the money, but they got their own ken—their own galleys—and you needn't give them another thought." He scanned the faces. Satisfied with the results, he resumed his seat and drew up paper and quill. "So then, mates, let's get on with it. We'll have to plan it to the minute, for our landing crew gets fidgety when we're not on time."

* * *

Myriah smiled up at Tabby, who came to relieve her in Billy's room. She tucked Billy in, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. With a sigh, she left him to her groom and went to her own room.

It was late, and she was exhausted. She dropped her gown where she stood and climbed into bed, pulling the covers all around herself and allowing her mind to wander.

She had a major problem, and its name was Sir Roland. She rummaged for a solution, and finally found one, but oh, she thought, it was going to be tricky.

She didn't know how long it was that she slept, as she couldn't see the clock quietly ticking on the far wall and didn't feel like getting up to have a look, but she could hear movements in Kit's room. She glanced towards the door that stood between the rooms, between them.

She had removed the chair she had wedged there—it seemed an age ago—and she could see a dim light at the crack of air beneath the door. He was back... and it was more than relief she felt. It was much more—it was anticipation.

* * *

Kit was tired. Yet as he stood in his room and tossed his shirt across to a wooden chair, his heart spoke with need and his body tensed with desire. She was so close... just in the next room. He should go to her and tell her how wonderful he thought her. He saw her now as an angel. Hadn't she appeared and saved his brother? Hadn't she nursed him, stayed with Billy while he had no choice but to meet with his men? Who she was no longer mattered. What she was—only one answer to that: his! Damnation, but that was something he felt in his blood. _She was his_ , and he had made up his mind to it as he went to their connecting door.

He already knew it would be unlocked before he pulled it open, feeling like a boy without style or grace, feeling awkward and wanting to get it right. The door made a slight creak as the light from the candle on his nightstand at his back flickered over her fiery hair spread all about her face. She sat up, and her beauty literally stole his breath; all he could do was stand there and stare...

She smiled at him and whispered, "You are safely back... I am so glad."

He went to her, knowing it was more than words he wanted to express. He had her in his embrace as he whispered her name, "Myriah..." It was all he could utter as his lips parted hers—as his tongue reminded them both of their last encounter.

He pushed her gently back against her pillow and stood for a moment to pull off his boots and then his breeches, and his heart swelled as she stared at his body and licked her lips.

He came to her then, took her hand, and put it to his hard, pulsating manhood. She stroked him enticingly, and he groaned as he broke away and climbed onto the bed.

He bent his head to her full breasts and whispered her name, just before he began to suckle and fondle there. She threw back her neck and closed her eyes. He looked at her and whispered, "No, my sweet. I want your eyes open... I want you to see me... watch me touch you..."

She opened them, and he was thrilled with what he saw in their deep blue-green recesses. He kissed a path over her belly to her thighs, spread them, lifted her legs, and began nibbling and licking her clit as he brought her to a scream of pleasure.

He was breathing hard. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way. He wanted her more than any woman he had ever known in his lifetime. More than that, he wanted to climb into her, be a part of her, and never let her go.

"Kit... you are... beautiful... all of you... your shoulders, your arms... this..." she said as she moved into position and took his cock, palming it with a motion that made him wild.

He rolled onto his back. Holding her by her small waist, he lifted her into position and told her hungrily, "Ride, love... ride it all you want, show me what you want from me, and I will give it to you... always..."

"What I want is... everything..." Myriah said, climbing onboard.
~ Ten ~

"ARR..." BILLY GROANED. He blinked at Myriah as she pulled away his drapes from the window and turned to smile brightly at him. "Hold there—what the deuce are you doing?"

"Cook is sending up a breakfast you will love... and I am going for a quick walk. 'Tis a glorious day!" she threw over her shoulder.

"Come back here, she-devil, and keep me company!" he called after her.

She turned and stuck her head back into the room. "I expect your brother will be doing that any time now."

Some moments later, she stood on the front portico and breathed deeply. Indeed, it was a lovely day for so many reasons.

Kit's lovemaking had gone on for an hour before they fell asleep in each other's arms, and while he had not uttered the words she craved to hear, he had come close. He had told her she was his and never would be any other's. He had said she made his heart beat. Imagine... such a pretty thing to say, but more than that, he had meant it.

Oh yes, everything seemed brighter, lighter, and perfect this morning. The gentle breeze brought the aroma of flowers that grew wild in the unkempt garden beds. The sun played saucily with the mist it was burning away, and the sky was a rich and cloudless blue.

Myriah stretched her arms heavenward—'twas a new day, and it held fresh hopes. She rounded the house and crossed the rear lawns past a rich meadow with grazing sheep. They looked like puffs of dirty rags sitting upon black footstools, and Myriah laughed when one picked up its head and _baaed_ at her.

She came across a small wooden bridge that arched prettily over a steep dyke and crossed it, feeling as though she had entered some fairy tale land. She walked beside the dike, looking down into its dark waters, marveling at the glistening gems it seemed to hold, when all at once the sound of another lamb bleating piteously halted her.

"Oh, gracious, however did you get there, you silly?" she asked the poor thing that was entangled in a mesh of wild grapevines. Its struggles were plunging it deeper into the water.

She looked around for a means to get to the animal, but the walls of the dike appeared to be almost straight up and down. However, there was a point at which a slope could be taken, though not without some effort.

"Oh, my..." Myriah sighed. "Very well, little one, it looks as if I am going to ruin a perfectly good gown, and I don't have but one other with me." Myriah then picked up her skirts and tucked the lace hem into her brown velvet waistband. Off came her walking boots and stockings.

She braced herself with her hands against the grassy walls, holding onto exposed roots and digging the sides of her feet into the dirt for support, complaining bitterly all the while. "You realize, of course, I shall return looking horribly dirty, so I do hope you appreciate what I am doing for you."

"Baaa!" the lamb replied.

"Very well... there, there," Myriah said, reaching the animal and patting its head. However, the poor thing's neck was being strangled by the vines, so she set to freeing the creature. This took a series of tugs that set her off balance, and she slid down the remainder of the slope and landed up to her knees in the water.

"Good lord!" Myriah exclaimed. "'Tis but low tide, and just look how deep it is. I shall probably catch my death of cold, you horrid animal. I do wish you hadn't tried to strangle yourself this morning," she said, wading out of the water and climbing back up to the lamb.

'Twas no easy task freeing him. The vines were made of sturdy stuff, and pull as she might, many of them still held fast; however, a long grunt and a solid pull did at last free the lamb. The fact that it also sent Myriah simultaneously flying backwards (not without the sound of her scream reverberating through the marshes) seemed to spur the lamb up and over the walls of the dike. Myriah's scream ended with a splash, and it was a moment before her head resurfaced.

She gasped for breath, noted the lamb had escaped to freedom without a backward glance, and told him he was an ungrateful creature as she climbed out of the dike.

Most individuals when fully clothed and in a similar situation would not stop along the way to sightsee. However, Myriah was a breed of a different beat. A formation caught her eye, and as she was already quite wet, she could see no harm and so sidetracked to satisfy her curiosity.

Perhaps it was the charm of finding lush, thick grapevines hanging like a screen over a mesh of driftwood that for some inexplicable reason seemed to have gathered in this spot, and only this one spot.

Perhaps it seemed intriguing that this _formation_ appeared to be some seven or eight feet in width and could not be reached except by water, since a kind of stone platform created a ceiling over the hiding place.

At any rate, Myriah knew a strange palpitation of the heart as she approached and peered through. Spreading the vines, she was not surprised to find a galley boat, some forty feet in length and about seven feet in width.

* * *

"Myriah!" Kit shouted. "Myriah!" He had heard her scream and the scream followed by a splash, but when he reached the dike he did not see her. A sick, painful ache immediately formed in the center of his belly.

She swam to the water's edge and called out thankfully, "Kit! Over here, Kit!"

He ran the distance and came to stand looming above her. "Oh my God, Myriah!" The sight of her completely drenched and struggling to emerge, hindered by her sopping gown, was such a relief that it sent him into a convulsion of wicked mirth. He doubled over with laughter, pointed at her, attempted to say something, but went off again unable to contain his glee.

As one could imagine, the lady found nothing in her present predicament worth such uproarious and unholy mirth, and she proceeded to advise him of this. "Fie on you, my lord! You wretch—how can you, when I stand here wet and cold and... confound it! I cannot climb out of this wet hole!" she declared.

Still chuckling, he made his way down the slope to her, gripped her arm, and pulled hard in order to overcome the weight of wet clothing. At length they reached the grassy top and collapsed on the ground. However, they made the mistake of finding each other's eyes, and this sent them both off into a fit of mirth that lasted long enough to wind them for some time.

At last Lord Wimborne collected himself, rose, and pulled Myriah to her feet. He shrugged off his riding jacket and put it round her wet shoulders, saying lightly, "Come, love... we'd better get you to the house and into some dry clothes before you catch your death."

She pulled on her boots, and they set off hastily for the warmth of a hearth fire.

She stopped him suddenly and looked intently up into his gray eyes, almost afraid of what he might say when he heard her out. "I wasn't spying, Kit—honestly, I was not. I was trying to save one of hose horrid little lambs, who did not even have the decency to thank me for my effort. But then, I fell in, you see..."

"I see very well." His lordship chuckled.

"Dreadful man!" She smiled, but then her face turned grim. "But... then, I saw."

Kit frowned. "You saw what, Myriah?"

"I did not mean to... but the driftwood—the vines clustered just so. It caught my curiosity, and I thought as long as I was already wet I'd have a look. There is a galley hidden there. But you know that already, don't you?"

"A galley?"

"Yes, 'tis hidden in what appears to be a man-made tunnel... no telling how far the tunnel goes."

"There is nothing in that. Many of the fishermen keep their galleys stored in underground caverns. This is the marsh and often done. And 'tis nothing for _you_ to think—or _talk_ —about!" Kit said, his gray eyes veiled. "Now do come, Myriah... before I end up with two patients on my hands." He put his arm about her shoulders and gently urged her forward.

She decided to let it go. He didn't want to tell her outright, and she understood, but she wished there didn't have to be any secrets between them.

Once cleaned and dry, her ivory silk (which was damaged beyond repair) traded for her one remaining blue gown, she spent the next hour on the hearthrug in Master William's bedchamber.

She, Kit, and Billy enjoyed a hearty breakfast—Billy's second such meal of the day—though it was done with much bantering and laughter at Myriah's expense. The tale of her morning adventure was the principal topic and one that gave both gentlemen an enormous amount of fun.

Myriah sat with her long red hair towards the fire, drying sections of it that were still wet. She pulled a comic face and sniffed amiably. "'Tis all very well for you two to go on and on, but I am now minus a gown. I think you and your sheep are quite horrid!"

"Listen to the girl... as though she didn't enjoy her dipping," Billy said mockingly. "And it wasn't our sheep you were saving but Farmer Todd's."

"Same thing—your land... he is a tenant... so, _your sheep_."

"She has a prodigious way of connecting the two, but she has a bit of a point there, Billy. Very well, we shall concede... we most certainly owe you one gown!"

"Ha," Billy protested. "I wouldn't give her one groat. Didn't ask her to fall into the canal, did I? Of all the clumsy..." He grinned widely at her because she was on her feet and threatening to choke him.

"Billy Wimborne, you just wait till you are well enough to take a beating. It shall give me immense pleasure to be the one to administer it—for you dearly need one."

Something caught Myriah's eye then, and she turned towards the open doorway to see one of Cook's sons standing there fidgeting uncomfortably.

Kit got up from Billy's bed and smiled reassuringly. "Yes, lad?"

"There be someone 'ere from Rye. He has a note for Miss 'ere... and he be wishful of giving it to 'er direct."

"Who is this someone?" inquired Myriah frowning, fear suddenly clutching at her heart.

"Aw, he be jest some village boy. I tried telling him I'd bring the letter up to ye... but he won't have it."

"I see... very well, then, I'm coming." She turned and excused herself.

She left her gentlemen eyeing one another as she followed the boy downstairs.

Myriah crossed the hall to a ragged young lad no more than ten who stood biting his bottom lip. She dove for a coin from her inner dress pocket and put it in his hands. "There... thank you for coming all this way," she said, reaching for the note.

He hesitated. "Be ye Lady Myriah?"

Myriah glanced about quickly and hastened to quiet the boy. "Ssh... yes, I am. Now may I have the note please, and tell me do... who put it in your hands?"

He handed it over and sniffed. "A fine gentlemen, and he paid me to wait for yer answer. I won't get my half-crown lest I do."

"Very well," Myriah said, breaking open the seal and moving away to read the epistle.

Myriah,

I don't know what game you are playing with the Wimbornes, nor do I care. You have done me an injustice that we must discuss. Meet me at a place of your choosing, but do not deny me this one boon—'tis the very least you owe me!

Roland

Myriah sighed. S _o... he already knows where I am,_ and soon Papa will know as well _—and then...?_

She returned to the boy. "Tell me... when you asked for me, did you ask for Lady Myriah?"

"No. The flash cove, he said... jest ask for a red-haired woman staying with the Wimbornes. Then he told me to give that lady the note if she admitted to be Lady Myriah. That's what I did... jest like he told me—now I needs an answer so I can get the blunt."

"You will have to wait a moment," Myriah said, crossing the hall to the library. She found paper and quill and jotted down a quick reply, sealed it, and returned to place the letter in the boy's dirty hand.

Myriah watched him leave and stood alone in the hallway a moment before she turned and started taking the stairs slowly up to the second floor. When she reached the landing, she found she could not return to Billy's room and went to her own instead.

She dropped onto a chair near her balcony and stared out the glass doors. Well... it was all over. She would now have to admit to her identity—and if Kit declared himself after he knew her name she would always have a doubt. Was it for her money? Oh faith... she wanted him to want her now—now when he thought her a nobody.

A knock sounded lightly at her door, and she got up just as Kit filled the open doorway. "May I come in for a moment, Myriah?" he asked gently.

She gave him a mischievous look. "So odd... I don't think I heard you ask that last night..."

He grinned boyishly, walked right in, and pulled up a chair facing her. "Something is wrong... do you feel you can tell me? Perhaps I can help."

_Yes, you big fool_ , she thought ruefully, _yes, there is something wrong. I want you to love me... no, I think you do. I want you to declare it, here and now._ Instead, she answered him with a soft smile. "Wrong? Why, no."

"Look, Myriah. I believe you are in some sort of trouble, and whatever you think I am involved in... doesn't matter. I want to help you."

She cut in quickly, "I am afraid there is nothing you can do." She hoped that would be the end of it. How could she tell him when she so wanted him to first say he loved her?

He got up and paced a moment before returning to bend onto one knee and take her hand. "Tell me, sweetings, what is it. Just take a leap of faith and confide in me—let me be the judge of whether or not I can help."

_How can I_ , she thought, _how can I tell you that I want you to declare your love and ask for my hand? You are a big oaf—that is what you are. You should be down on your knee asking for my—but no, instead and looking so inviting that I want to dive into your arms and confess the whole_. So she said, "I am unable to do that. We all have our secrets, don't we... my lord?" At once she was angry with herself for her sarcasm.

"Yes," he said, stiffening, "I had quite forgotten that." He got to his feet and started out of the room, hesitating once at the door, but without looking back he left her to her solitude.

* * *

The pain of watching Kit leave ripped through Myriah like a whip that hit and snapped back in one motion.

His name lodged itself in her throat, though she was unable to call him back. How could she? What would she say? Her hand went out towards the sound of his retreating footsteps, her mind called out his name, and then when it was too late, he was gone.

She heard him take the stairs and listened for the front door to slam, which inevitably it did.

Myriah wanted to cry. Never before had she had the very thing she wanted and needed more than anything else in the world there, just before her grasp, and yet been totally unable to attain it. However, she had no time to speculate on this or to allow herself the comfort of tears, for a bellowing voice called her to order.

"Myriah, I say, Myriah!" Billy shouted from his room.

She got to her feet and crossed the room, calling in response, "Just a moment, Billy—I'm coming!" She arrived at his room, put her hands on her hips, and inquired impatiently, "Well, now that I'm here, what was all the shouting about?"

"Don't be a shrew!" Billy admonished. "How else was I to get you here? Damnation, woman, you must learn to curb that nasty habit you have of unleashing your tongue. 'Tis too sharp—you are liable to scare off every buck in sight!"

She pulled a face, and her mood became frosty. "You did not call me here simply to impart that wondrous piece of advice."

"Don't cut at me with your tongue," her tormentor chided. "A veritable vixen, ain't you? Well... as it happens I called you in here to ask you what's amiss." When she began giving a noncommittal answer, he crooked a finger of his right hand. "'Tis no use trying to fob me off, for I don't take to round tales. I've got all m'marbles, so don't try pitching the gammon at me, Myriah! Now, out with it."

She plucked at her blue skirt and then stared at him intently, "Oh, Billy—I do want to tell you, but I can't—at least not everything..."

"Well, then, try telling me something, and we shall take it from there. Trusted you with m'life. I rather think you could do a bit of the same."

"Oh, and I would, but... I don't want your brother to know. You must promise me that anything I tell you will go no further."

"As it happens, Myriah, I think you're out there. Knowing fellow, Kit. He could be a help to you, but if that is how you want it, it isn't for me to say nay. So give over, do. You have my word of honor on it."

"Very well. I shall tell you this much only. The note I received today was from the gentleman my papa wishes me to marry."

"Egad!" young Wimborne exclaimed, much struck with this piece of news. "However did the fellow find you?"

"I... well... oh, you might as well know. I sent Tabby with a note to my grandfather, whom I thought might be worried about me, and Ro—the gentleman in question saw Tabby and followed him." She sighed. "I have been expecting this, because Tabby discovered he was being followed, and although he was able to ditch him, the blasted man took it into his head to sleuth about Rye... where he is now staying. I suppose he must have seen my Silkie, as he knows my stallion, when I went to fetch your brother for Dibbs."

"Sounds a devilish brute—tracking you to ground like this. What does he want? I mean... you don't want to marry him, so why the devil would he..." Dawning lit in Billy's eyes. "Hang me, Myriah, 'tis money he wants... so must be money you have. Just who are you, Myriah?"

"The point being that he has demanded I meet with him."

"Damn if I will let you." Billy shook his head. "I'll be out of this bed so fast and on you—see if I won't. You aren't meeting this havey-cavey fellow alone... no, you are not."

"Oh, but, Billy, I must. There is no telling what he may do if I don't meet with him. It isn't for myself I am concerned, but he could make things uncomfortable for my father."

"You can't, Myriah—I shan't let you."

"I have a plan, but I need to stall him... I need time."

"Myriah, the fellow sounds a rum-touch to me. Don't like the dratted man. I won't have any sister of mine meeting such a fellow alone. I am coming with you."

"No, you will not! Silly puppy, do you want your wound opening up for all the excisemen to see?"

"Then take your groom with you, for God's sake," Billy retorted irritably.

"Yes—yes, perhaps that would be wise."

She was no fool, and she knew that Roland was desperate for this marriage. Everyone knew he was in debt and that only marriage to her would keep him from debtor's prison. He might be capable of almost anything, but she had no choice—she had to meet with him. She took a turn about the room, looked up at the mantelshelf clock, and exclaimed, "Oh, gracious! There is just enough time to change into my riding habit."

"Where do you meet this dog?" Billy asked darkly.

"Land Gate in Rye—'tis public enough to be safe," she said, vanishing from his room and leaving him to his thoughts.

She hurried with her clothes, donning the dark blue velvet habit she had worn on the night she had fled and landed at Wimborne. Up went her long red hair, and she found the matching top hat in her portmanteau and plopped it on her head. A quick scan at her profile in the looking glass made her grimace. Not very neat, but it would have to do, she thought, as she rushed about looking for her kid gloves. She scooped them up and popped her head into Billy's room. "There now—don't fret it, pup. I shall be back within the hour."

"See that you do—for if you are more than ten minutes overdue, my girl... I shall come for you myself," Billy threatened grimly.

She laughed, well pleased with his concern, and rushed down the front stairs, out of the house, and to the stables.

Tabson eyed her and said, "I don't like it."

"You don't even know what yet."

"I know it is something I won't be liking," he said on a humph and began saddling up their horses.

* * *

Sir Roland Keyes gave his neck cloth a final pinch and surveyed himself in the long mirror. He was well satisfied with his appearance. He was, he thought, quite well built a buck by any standards. His auburn curls were styled a la _Brutus_ around features that were undeniably attractive.

His height and the cut of his clothes did him credit, though his lifestyle and his present plans did _not._ In truth, he was rather surprised at Myriah's lack of proper appreciation for his proposal of marriage.

How could she ignore all his exceptional qualities? How came she to run from him? She seemed to enjoy his company. He had hoped by now he would have won her over with his easy charm. He was attracted to her and, of course, to the dowry that came with her hand.

Well, if she would not be seduced by his many exceptional qualities, then he would have no choice but to force her hand. It was an irritating situation, for Roland was usually not the sort that had to resort to force and had no liking for it.

He enjoyed a challenge, and Myriah had certainly been that. She kept his mind active, and though his heart had refused to beat any faster at the sight of her exquisite face and well-shaped body, still, he meant to have her.

He left the inn and called for his horse to be saddled, and it struck him that he had never been in love—not really. Love, he supposed was something he would continue to get whenever he chanced to want it, for marriage would not in any way interfere with his amatory pursuits.

His steed saddled and ready for him, he mounted and walked his horse over the cobbles down High Street to East Cliff and rounded the corner where the Land Gate Arch loomed up before him.

Abduction had entered his mind. He could perhaps entice her onto the road...?

Not Myriah. She was a fighter and would rather be ruined than be forced into marriage. Besides, an abduction would require a private coach, and he hadn't the blunt for that.

He saw her riding towards him. At her back was her groom—drat the man!

He pulled out his hand-painted enamel snuffbox and flipped the lid open. With a deft movement he had a pinch up to his nostril and inhaled, hoping its soothing quality would control his temper, for he was much annoyed with Myriah for all the trouble she had put him to.

He waited quietly as she approached, and his eye was not blind to her fresh loveliness. He rarely thought of money when she was this close, only of possessing her. Money was but a comfortable end result to the marriage he planned.

He snapped his snuffbox closed and replaced it in his inner pocket. A warm smile hovered about his sensitive lips.

Myriah's eyes glittered challengingly as she rode up to meet him, and she looked as wild as the stallion who was presently throwing his head.

"Dash it, love, but you quite take the breath away," Roland said, slipping off his horse agilely and putting up his hands for her.

She allowed him to help her dismount and stood with her back to the horse while Tabby hovered in the background with the reins.

Roland attempted his usual play with her. He touched her nose. "Naughty Myriah, you have sent a shaft through me. Promising to marry me one minute and vanishing the next. Heartless creature— _kiss me_."

She pushed his chest away and laughed. "I did not promise to marry you! Now, out with it, Roland. I have come as you _demanded._ Where do we go from here?"

"To the altar, my love! I wish it, your _papa_ wishes it, and you know, deep in your hard little heart... _you_ wish it!" he said glibly.

"But I do _not_ wish it, my friend, and if Papa wished for it in the moment, it was because he was angry, confused. Do but listen to me, Roland... you don't love me."

"Ah, but I do, from your fiery ringlets"—he traced a line from her forehead over her nose and stopped at her lips—"to your dainty little toes."

"That, sir, is not love. That is something quite different."

"My lovely girl, you simply are not up to snuff yet, though you think you are. Yes, I love you, want you, whatever you will call it," he said, reaching for her neat little waist and bending down for her lips.

She pushed him away and stepped back. "What you want and need is first my dowry and then my inheritance. Be a man, Sir Roland, admit it—you are dished, you need to marry to stave off your creditors. I can name a dozen young women with nearly as much money as I that would do very nicely for your game. They are willing prey. I, sir, am not."

He put a gloved finger to her chin. "They have not your eyes, Myriah—they have not your body... and, my dearest child, they have not your name! I do not intend to marry beneath me. Those whose family names are acceptable are devilishly unhandsome. You would not match me with such as that, now would you, Myriah?"

"Oh, Roland, you are horrid! You are cold and calculating, and—"

He cut her off. "And in need!" He took her by the arms and pulled her close. "What do you know of unfulfilled needs, pretty chit? Your papa gives you everything you want."

"If you had not gamed what you had left to you, sir, you would not be here now begging for my hand," Myriah shot back.

"Listen to me, Myriah. I have been doing this civilly. I am done with that. I am telling you that you will marry me. You do not have a choice," he said complacently.

"Roland, Papa did _not_ make the announcement. Therefore, I cannot be held to it."

"No, he did not... _nor_ did he give you permission to remain under the same roof with _two bachelors_."

"That is none of your affair!"

"I am afraid it is. The Wimbornes are not only bachelors—they are also in the business of smuggling. That, my dear, is another matter. After all, I cannot have my future bride involved with such riff-raff!"

"Smuggling?" Myriah exclaimed, admirably feigning surprise. "Roland, if you brandish such statements about, you will lay yourself open for a slander suit you can ill afford. The Wimborne house is an old and respected name."

"Ah, Myriah, you are not thinking. I am no fool. When I give you warning, take it. Don't attempt to frighten me off the path, for it won't fadge. I am no schoolboy, and I am _not_ playing a game. I am in earnest. Now let us understand something. If you persist in your decision to remain in the Wimborne household, I will have no alternative but to report your whereabouts to your father."

"Do what you like, Roland. I shall leave when, and if, _my father_ insists on it—not at _your_ command!"

"Do you know? You have put a notion into my head," Roland said, smiling without warmth. "Yes, indeed, Myriah... you are hot to protect these smugglers of yours... aren't you?"

A chill shot through her. She put out her gloved hand and held his arm. "There is nothing to protect."

His arm went around her immediately, encircling her small waist and drawing her to him. This time, because she had to know, she waited to hear what was on his mind.

"Sweet Myriah, wild love of mine, what a pleasure 'twill be to tame you. We understand one another. Don't fight me, and no one shall get hurt."

She looked up into his hazel eyes, and they were bright with his meaning. "Pray, Roland, who could be hurt by—by my opposing a marriage with you?"

"You know very well what I mean, darling—your friends the Wimbornes, who are already suspected of being moonshiners. I shall give evidence against them."

"You have no such evidence," she snapped and pulled out of his hold.

"Leave with me tomorrow for your father's, and I shall forget their existence."

Roland frightened her. He was too confident of himself... and he was well able to carry out his threat. How did he know this much? She herself had been unsure just what the Wimbornes were up to... unsure until... oh, faith! How did _he know?_ She looked up at his face. "I... I will think about it, Roland."

"Tomorrow afternoon, Myriah. I want you ready to leave tomorrow afternoon, and then we shall discuss our marriage plans."

"I will give you my answer regarding my departure from Wimborne Towers tomorrow when we meet... but I will never discuss marriage with you, Roland! Understand that." She withdrew from his hold and turned to Silkie, who was being held by her groom. She mounted quickly and motioned to Tabby, who was eying Sir Roland with an expression of severe loathing. They hurriedly departed.

Sir Roland threw Myriah a kiss, for she made the mistake of turning to look at him. She snapped her head back to watch the road, put out with herself and him.

* * *

Lord Wimborne watched them and felt a sharp stab of discomfort. He had come around High Street just moments ago and stood dumbfounded at its peak, watching Myriah converse with Sir Roland.

He couldn't take his eyes away from them, and his jaw clenched as he watched Roland take her into his arms. What stopped him from going forward and ripping the man apart was the fact that at that moment she did _not demur._

He was quick to recognize Sir Roland Keyes, the man who had been sharing a table and conversation with Corporal Stone, the same one who had been asking questions about him. And now Roland was the man whose charms had brought Myriah away from Wimborne and into his arms.

Kit had seen her expression, and it was one of deep intensity as she faced Roland. Bubbles seemed to form in Kit's veins as he watched her, and they popped, leaving him agitated and confused and bleeding. He felt as though blood was oozing out of his pores.

He watched her pull away roughly and ride off... and he stared at Roland, once again feeling the need to tear him to pieces as he blew a kiss to Myriah's retreating form.

Every fiber in his body ached. He saw Roland turn his horse about, and Kit urged his own roan into an alley, where he sat upon his steed's back waiting for Sir Roland Keyes to pass. As he did, Kit noted with a stab of green jealousy that the man was not unattractive. He knew an urge to fly home and confront Myriah—he wanted to face her, to demand her explanation. He wanted to know why she had been in that man's arms.

What he did was go to the Mermaid Inn and order up a pint of ale and stare into its suds as he told the man at his side, "Women can be treacherous creatures."

His companion was already in his cups but found this to be a very accurate statement and concurred by clinking glasses.

"The devil is in it... but I think I will go ask her what in blazes she was doing."

"Wouldn't do that..." his companion slurred.

"Why not?"

"She might tell ye... and it might not be what ye want to hear..."

However, he put his coin on the table and stomped out of the tavern. He was going home to have a talk with her and confront her!

Her wild, wondrous magic had enchanted his soul and held his heart captive, but he would not be played for a fool. He rode his horse hard and arrived at his stables only a few minutes later, with his temper in full bloom.

Without bothering to call Fletcher to attend his horse, he slid off the saddle and put him in his stall, already stocked with his evening's hay.

When he walked towards his house, it was with intense purpose.

His front door flew open and away from his hands. The stairs were taken two at a time, and the door to Myriah's room received no questioning knock but was sent inwards with a masterful show of force.

Her room however, was empty. This in no way assuaged his lordship's strange fever, and he stormed across the hall, exploding like an erupting volcano into his brother's room. His gray eyes were mirrors of intent.

Young Wimborne scanned his brother's face with a deepening frown. "Eh, what's amiss, Kit—what has happened?'"

"Myriah—where is she?" Kit demanded, his tone a roar that displayed his uncompromising mood.

"Myriah? Why, she said something about taking a walk. Said she had to think. She does that best outdoors." Billy shrugged. "I rather like to... _Kit... Kit_...?" However, his brother had already stomped out of the room, leaving him wondering.

* * *

Myriah leaned against the tall white elm and gazed down at the dark seawater below. Whatever was she to do?

All at once she was looking into the stormy gray eyes of Christopher Wimborne, and her heart began beating against her chest, demanding—demanding...

His hands were burning through her sleeves as he gripped her arms, and the fury of his expression shook her with new wonder. Whatever was wrong?

"I want the truth, Myriah! The time for coyness is past. What is Sir Roland Keyes to you, and why, my dear, did you meet him in secret today at Land Gate?"

"Secret?" Myriah said, and her voice was pitched an octave too high. Her lips trembled as she responded, "My lord, I made _no secret_ of it! Why, one could hardly call the Land Gate entrance to Rye a secluded spot!"

"Damnation, woman, don't play games with me! I want to know why you met with him, and why you chose to do it away from Wimborne Towers."

She bit her lower lip, and her lashes veiled the expression in her eyes. "Why—why must you know?"

"Lord... but you try a man's patience," he spluttered, shaking her. "I will know, and I will know _now,_ my girl!"

She yanked herself out of his grip. "Do you mean to shake it out of me?"

He took one of her arms and brought her up against him. Her face was beneath his own, and a chance observer might have deemed the sight a glorious and arduous one. However, each of the antagonists was beyond such thoughts. "By God, Myriah—do not tempt me! Your _friend_ Sir Roland only last night sat chatting amiably with _our_ friend Corporal Stone, and _I will know_ what _your_ connection with him is!" Kit seethed.

"Oh—is that..." Myriah began as understanding flashed through her mind. So he felt betrayed. She'd thought—she'd hoped—he was jealous. However, she knew there was serious trouble ahead. She was going to have to leave, and her heart was already breaking. She looked into his eyes, and her voice was low as she said, "Well, my lord, I have no notion what all your heat is about."

"Damnation, woman! You have the audacity—did you not hear me before? _I saw you_... fiend seize the day and the first moment ever I clapped eyes on your face, but now I will have an answer. I saw you by God _in another man's arms!_ "

She slapped him across the face, stinging her hand as well as his cheek. " _How dare you._ "

"You witch!" breathed Lord Wimborne, taking her into his arms ferociously. His kiss was like a sudden, merciless wind, and it left her breathless and hungry for more. His hand went to her hair, taking hold of her long red curls and pulling her head back, enabling him to discover what he felt—what he needed. His kisses were wild, unrestrained, and infinitely deft in their enticing skill.

She was exalted and hurt all at once. He wasn't making love to her, but laying claim.

This was all so new, and she was going to have to run away from him to save him and Billy from Roland. Now she knew that Roland had met with Stone...

She didn't have a choice any longer... but now, in his arms, her body trembled beneath his touch, and as he pulled her with him to the soft turf, she knew she would never love any other.

She pushed half-heartedly at his broad chest, attempting to fight the needs of her heart, but his voice came like a slow hiss and jolted her into anger.

"She-devil, my brother calls you, but he doesn't know the half of it..."

His lips were on hers again, demanding with the force of his desire and the skill of his experience, but Myriah was tense with anger and unwilling to yield. He had never given her the benefit of the doubt. If he cared for her, would he not try and do that first? "Stop it, Kit!" She shouted at him.

He laughed and mounted her, negating her effort at rising. "Oh, no, sweetings—'tis a devil driving me, 'tis you, love, and there is nothing that could stop me now, Myriah."

That, of course, was all that was needed to unclothe the passion he had aroused in her. With a strength born of fury, her hand once again left its mark across his cheek, and Kit Wimborne found himself off the lady and stretched solidly on the grass.

Myriah was up and running off in one movement, and her legs carried her faster than they had ever done before. Her palm, red and burning, served to remind her that she had enjoyed at least some satisfaction before she discarded the odious brute she'd had the stupidity to fall in love with! A sob tore through her body and stuck deep her throat.

Well, so much for hurting him—he hadn't a heart to hurt. She would leave Wimborne Towers and never look back! She would leave on the morrow—never listen to his merry, dear rich and wonderful voice—never...

The tears that streamed down her cheeks were taken by the wind and slapped into her face again and again until at last she reached the house, found her room and her pillow, and buried her heart within its cool softness.

* * *

Kit Wimborne, his face smarting from the blow of Myriah's hand, his head whirling and his heart in the heaving of unsure waters, watched helplessly as Myriah receded behind the sway of the land.

Plague take the girl—she behaved like a sainted mystery. One moment she was an innocent with childlike eyes, and then the next a woman with a siren's magic! Devil take it! When she was near, all he wanted to do was make love to her, beyond his bed, beyond the fucking...

He wanted her voice in his ear. He wanted her smile on him. He wanted to hear her laughter in his home... he wanted Myriah in every imaginable way...

What was he going to do? Kit was a problem solver. He didn't allow things to lay waste from neglect. He had to find out what she and this blade in town had together.

Jealousy had driven him into madness. He knew the only way to banish the misery of his aching heart was to possess her, and he had gone about it poorly—not poorly, miserably. He was a fool, he told himself.

He lay back against the turf and felt the cool blades tickle his cheek. His hand went to his forehead, creating a shield for his troubled eyes. He had to think, he had to clear his head—but most of all he had to get Myriah out of his mind.

He knew he must do that if he was ever to be at peace again—if he was ever to—oh damn. He was in hell and on fire, because he would never get Myriah out of his system!

* * *

Sir Roland rounded the corner and entered the long, narrow alley that led to the Mermaid Inn's rear stableyard entrance. He had visited his buxom pot-maid in her bed and thereby dispelled some of his frustration. Myriah was turning out to be a real problem.

Abduction it seemed was out of the question, for she was too well guarded by her groom. No, he would not be able to abduct her whilst they had their meeting tomorrow. What of Wimborne Towers, he thought, one brow low over his eye, the other going up, for suddenly he had a notion. _Yes!_ Could he not linger about Wimborne unbeknownst? Certainly he could. He would wait for the right moment, and with the special marriage license he had procured safely tucked in his pocket he would be one step ahead of his game.

He entered the inn, feeling suddenly ravenous, and proceeded to the tavern room.

"Hallo!" Stone called from the counter. "I was just about to have my dinner. Why not join me?"

Sir Roland nodded amiably enough and thought, _Why not?_ The fellow might have more to tell. Pointing to young Stone's pewter dish, he ordered a plate of the same and a bumper of ale before joining the preventive officer at his table.

The young man sighed heavily as he leaned over his plate and gave Roland a calculated look.

Sir Roland discarded his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, on a nearby chair and returned the look with a smirk. "Catch any smugglers lately?"

Stone scowled. "Everything has been quiet—too quiet—but following a lead we got in Winchelsea."

"Oh? Anything interesting?"

Stone opened his mouth and then shut it quickly, for the innkeeper had sidled over with Sir Roland's dinner. They waited for the man to depart, and then Stone inclined his head and lowered his voice. "I think we got 'em this time. Aye, that I do. Tonight we'll have the bastards..."

A lad, thin, small, and not more than nine years of age, pressed himself against the narrow opening of the tavern counter and sighed. His mother had placed the brown package in his hands and bade him deliver it to the innkeeper's wife. He had tried to hand the thing into Thomas's hands but found the busy tavern keeper almost impossible to halt. Then the sound of Stone's voice filtered through his boredom, and his head moved sharply at the words.

Stone was well known to the lad. The preventive officer was known to all the men (and their boys) who worked Lord Wimborne's galley. Cautiously, he painted himself against a recess in the tavern wall where he was well hidden from view.

Stone continued, feeling safe by the emptiness of the tavern room. "Know they plan on a crossing just about seven or so tonight. Mean to be there when they do... Tide is in, and we have it on good authority that their galley be leaving from Wimborne Dike. Our Winchelsea informer tells us they plan their drop at Knockholt Beach, and our Revenue Cutter will be waiting, on 'em. Lord, but I've been waiting for this night, I have."

"You talk as if they were the Hawkhurst Gang themselves." Roland smiled mockingly.

"Aye, maybe I do, and maybe they ain't, as I have to admit the Hawkhurst were a bloody bunch, and these gentlemen be but a speck of dust in comparison. All the same, they be traitors to the Crown, for they are giving the French our gold."

Sir Roland's sharp eyes caught the movement at the bar entrance, and he motioned Stone to silence. The preventive officer turned around at once, and his dark brows met over his hawk nose. "Eh—what are you doing there, boy?" he demanded of the lad.

"Me? Nuthin'... I be waiting on Thomas, that's all—got a gown, m'mum done up for his wife, I do."

"John Bilkes!" Thomas, the innkeeper appeared from nowhere and took the lad by the arm. "The missus be upstairs waiting on that dress. You best take it to her quick."

"Aye," the lad said, scurrying out of the tavern room and rushing down the corridor. He turned to find the heavy Thomas laboring after him and shoved the package into his hands. "Take this, sir. Got to go after m'pa, I do. Got to tell him."

"Tell him... tell him what, lad?" the innkeeper asked, frowning, but the lad was already running off.

* * *

Myriah heard the thumping of the knocker and ran down the stairs to fling open the door. There she found a young lad staring up at her just before he collapsed to his knees. "Oh, you poor boy—whatever is wrong, child?" Myriah asked, observing his condition.

The boy blinked, opened his mouth to speak, and found no breath left with which to form the words. He sucked in air and tried to get up. Myriah helped him and steadied him against the doorjamb. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"Need Master Billy."

"Master Billy is... resting."

"Came straight here hoping Master Billy could go warn 'em. Don't know where the galley is m'self." The lad gasped in staccato breaths.

"Warn them? Tell me at once."

The boy eyed her for a moment, caught some air, and managed, "You must be the one saved Master Billy... aye, then... is he able yet to get about?"

"No... so tell me now."

"Lookee, I don't know if I should, but I ain't got no choice, besides it don't make no ha'porth o'difference, at this point, do it? So... I'll tell ye all I know. I was in the tavern, and I heard Stone. He was saying to some flash cove how's they got 'em tonight. Oh, lordy, lordy, my poor pa... they mean to catch 'em and hang 'em, they do!"

" _What_?" Myriah shrieked. "Explain yourself."

"They know the galley be going down the dike, plan on cornering 'em at the entrance to the channel. But if they don't manage the thing... then they aim to 'ave at 'em at the Knockholt Beach where they land."

"I see—right then, lad. I know where they are. Go upstairs and tell Master William what has occurred. Don't let him get up—mind now. If he tries, you get my groom who is sitting with him to help you bolt him to the ground if you have to. Tell him I know where his brother is and mean to warn him. Hurry!" Myriah said before she rushed out of the house and felt the night air on her cheeks.

Thank God she had fallen into the dike this morning, Myriah thought as she sped across the little arched bridge on her way to the spot where the galley boat was housed. _Faith._ This morning? How long ago it seemed, and how much had passed since. All the pain and the tears that loving Kit Wimborne had caused her to shed meant nothing in that moment. She only knew that she would not, could not, allow him to be uncovered in his game. His game was wrong. She knew that and did not care. What had she to do with right and wrong? What had she to do with proprieties? She only knew she loved, and for that love she would give her all if she could, even if she never saw him again.

They hanged smugglers—but they would not hang Kit. No, being an aristocrat would win him, instead, a subtle destruction. They would take his name and drag it through the slime, and that would destroy all trace of his heart—of his pride. She would die before she would let them do that to him. He was no doubt driven to desperation for his people... his tenants and himself. She had to get to him and warn him. She had to stop him from going out with the galley this night.

She held up her skirts as she ran through the tall, swaying grass, her eyes peering into the darkness, when suddenly she stopped to listen. Then she saw him in the galley and ran to him. She jumped into the boat with more speed than finesse, which set the lads to complaining as she rocked the vessel; hands outstretched, she cried, "Kit, oh Kit... Stone is coming, and if they don't get you at this end, they mean to trap you at Knockholt..." Myriah's breath came in quick spurts.

Kit held her shoulders and looked into her face. "What is this?"

She told him about the lad who had come to warn them as he had overheard Stone's conversation.

Kit turned to his men. "Right then, lads. John, go off and have our crew meet us at Beach Head instead of Knockholt. Hurry now, there is no time, and make it blue lanterns! Ride sharp now, mate."

"Aye," the heavyset boy said as he scrambled out of the boat and up the slope, disappearing from their view.

"No, Kit—no, you don't mean to go still! You can't. It's too dangerous. Please... think of Billy—think of your name," Myriah cried, taking his lapels into her hand and attempting to bring him to his senses by wrinkling them furiously.

"Hush, sweetings. I damn well want to set your mind at ease, but I have to go tonight. There is no help for it. Don't ask me any questions, only believe me—it will be all right. Now you've done us a good turn—so out with you..."

Realizing she was in the boat with him, Myriah folded her arms across one another and replied, "No."

"You will go and now—I've got no time to waste convincing you, love. If I have to pick you up and dump you into the sea in order to get you to go home, I shall." His tone indicated that he would not spend any time arguing the point, yet Myriah felt she had to stay with him and wouldn't budge.

"Please, Kit. I can help—I could be a lookout."

He laughed and chucked her chin, but at that moment they heard horses rumbling in the distance. The sound sent a shaft of silence through them all, and Myriah found herself face down against the wood planking of the boat.

The smell of seaweed, salt encrustations, and fish threatened to overcome Myriah. Her eyes were shut tight, and her nose was pressed against the bottom of the seaworthy galley. She was vaguely aware of tremendous quiet above her until she heard Kit's whispered command: "Steady, lads... keep the beat steady!"

The open boat was moving through the still water at an incredible rate. She had never known what force men could apply to the oars. She heard the swish of water against wood, she listened to the quick, even beat, and a tingle of excitement swept through her. Then the sound of the dragoons slashed through the night. She heard Corporal Stone's staccato orders and knew him to be close, too close. Still Kit urged his men on. He was like a god, wholly at ease, confident—instilling his men with the spirit to go on.

Again they heard Stone's command, followed by a series of gunshots. She prayed. She had often heard that smugglers would turn on the dragoons and engage them in gunfire. She couldn't bear it if Kit were to kill a man who was only doing his duty. She put the fear away and refused to think about it.

She loved him, and at the moment that was all that mattered—loving him and being with him.

Suddenly the boat pitched to the left, and Myriah put her hands around the firm, strong leg beside her. Hoisting herself up to Lord Wimborne's knees, she could see that the causeway had split. _Faith—_ it had forked and left the riding officers standing foolishly at bay.

The dragoons were on the wrong embankment with no immediate way to the dike the boat had taken. They stood like a pack of foolish boys, waving their blunderbusses and shouting threats and curses at the tidesmen's heads.

Kit looked back at them and, without slowing his pace at the oars, began to laugh. It was a merry sound and infected his crew until they were all giving way to mirth, well pleased with themselves and each other.

Myriah shifted her position so that she sat, legs tucked under herself between the span of Lord Wimborne's knees. She felt the salt-water breeze rush at her, for they were at the head of open water, and she heard Kit's jovial voice. "Right then, lads, keep a sharp eye out, and it is to Boulogne!"

The men around her chuckled, and she settled in between his legs to listen to the splash of water against the boat's side. Myriah gazed up at Kit's ruggedly handsome face with wonder. He was everything she had ever dreamed of in a man... and more—although she hadn't counted on moonshining. She saw the pistol in his belt and touched it as she looked up at him. He smiled at her as she asked, "You would never use this... against innocent men... would you, Kit?"

He chuckled. "What kind of fiend do you take me for, love? If I use it 'twould be to lay a few poor devils back... give them pause, not do them in."

She smiled, but the sea wind was strong and the cold shot through her thin silk dress, causing her to tremble. He frowned and pulled in his oars, balanced them, and shrugged off his cloak.

She found herself being wrapped gently in its folds and felt a kiss planted on her forehead. "Here, sweetings, keep low right where you are, between my legs, and you should be warm enough. I wouldn't have had you on such a journey, but there was nothing for it—couldn't leave you to the dragoons."

" _Kit,_ here with you is precisely where I want to be," she answered breathlessly.

He eyed her for a long moment but didn't speak. To Myriah she felt as though he had to shake himself loose from her to keep an eye to their crossing. She smiled to herself.

She scanned the men—his men—and reminded herself that they were smugglers all, and yet, something was off. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. They had the look of men born to the land, not the sea. To be sure, they were dressed as seamen with woolly caps covering their heads, kerchiefs round their necks, and they were working the oars with solid, strong movements. Still... something was off.

They all had leather straps slung around their bodies, from which hung empty leather purses. She sighed and supposed those purses would be filled tonight.

The sea was kind, the wind light and in their favor. There was no tossing to slow their pace, and Myriah looked at the calm water and sighed. It was too beautiful.

The moonlight made a narrow white path from the sea to heaven, and the stars twinkled brightly in the black velvet sky.

"It's a full moon tonight, just what we've been waiting for," Kit said to her casually.

"I... I don't want to hear it..." Myriah answered, as she realized the enormity of their crime. This way of life—this smuggling—would make it impossible for them to be together... because of Roland.

"You don't? You are a mystery, Myriah—a veritable mystery. I would have thought you would love the adventure." Kit smiled and nudged her gently with his leg.

She placed her cheek against his knee, and the action brought his eyes upon her.

"Myriah..."

"Yes, Kit?"

"Are you warm enough, love?"

She felt as though he wanted to say more but couldn't with all the interested ears around him. She smiled and answered, "Yes, Kit."

She was headed for Boulogne, France... and they were at war with the French. What was she doing?

The bay was now well behind them, and their galley appeared no more than a dark strip of wood on a vast sea. Her map at home outlined the English Channel. On paper it looked so very narrow, but that was paper, and this... this was reality, and no land was in sight.

Kit glanced at her, and finding her mouth dour, rallied her. "Well, sweetings, something has you by the tail—out with it."

She pulled a face at him. "That, my lord, is a most ungentlemanly thing to say to a lady."

He grinned. "Lady—my dear girl, tonight you are naught but a female smuggler!"

"Thanks to you." She wagged a finger at his face.

"I thought you wanted to tag along with us?" his lordship returned amiably.

"I did—what does that signify?"

He laughed and began reciting.

With her pistols loaded she went on board,

By her side hung a glittering sword,

In her belt two daggers—well arm'd for war,

Was the female smuggler, who ne'er feared a scar.

She giggled. "You are jolly, aren't you? For I do assure you I have no weapons about me, and I am very fearful of being scarred!"

"Then why are you here, Myriah?"

"Not for the adventure," she answered softly as she started to yawn, and it wasn't long after that she fell asleep.

The next thing she knew he was rousing her, calling her name. "Myriah... look... Boulogne... look, love... 'tis there..."

She realized she had been sleeping and stretched both her arms and her neck as she peered through the darkness, past the gentle peaks of waves, but she couldn't see a thing. "No—I don't see a thing."

"Don't you? Must see about your eyes, love." He was grinning like a boy.

She slapped his leg and then once again cuddled against him for warmth. "It feels like we have been on the water forever..."

"We have, sweetings—this same trip took us five hours the last time, but without checking my timepiece, I'd say we did it in three."

"Oh, Kit—must you smuggle?" she asked on a plea.

He laughed. "Must I? No, there are many who would say I most definitely _must not_!"

"Do not poke fun at me, Kit. I am serious," Myriah said appealingly.

He looked at her and opened his mouth, and she felt in that moment he wanted to tell her something. However, he turned away, and she couldn't see his expression, even in the moonlight.

She sighed sadly and looked again at the endless stretch of dark water, wondering why he had suddenly turned her up cold.

The next thirty minutes passed swiftly, and suddenly Myriah heard one of the men call 'land.' She got excited in spite of herself, for she had never seen France. She had heard so much about it from her father, who had made the Grand Tour and who had seen Napoleon during the brief peace in 1802.

She would actually set foot on French soil—and how she wished it were Paris and during peacetime. She had started to daydream about it when she spied two wagons and a crew of French sea worthies flapping their arms about in greeting. She then felt the galley scrape against the shore, and her heart jumped into her throat.

Kit's men were nimbly clambering out of the open boat, and then Kit himself was taking her hand and lifting her out, but not before he held her tightly against himself and breathed something low and heady into her ear.

He led her along the pebbly beach and held her around her waist as he paused. She looked up at him and then followed his line of vision to a small, dark stranger.

The man was dressed in what she imagined a French gentleman would wear, and his many-tiered gray greatcoat came from the hands of a skillful tailor. He inclined his head towards Kit and said in French, " _Bon soir, mon ami_... it was a good journey, _oui_?"

" _Oui_ , it was a good journey," Kit replied, moving away to position the man on one side of him.

She marveled at Kit's French accent, for she herself spoke the language only passably.

The French crew and English alike began loading the galley, and they worked in unison, totally unmindful that their two countries were at war—and Myriah was confused by it all.

She imagined they saw it only as a means to put food on their families' tables and clothes on their backs. It was hard, backbreaking work, but it served, and thus there were no complaints as they did their jobs.

Once the galley's belly was loaded with tubs of French brandy, Frenchman and Englishman smiled peacefully at one another.

"Who is the pretty with, you?" the stranger inquired, still speaking in French.

"My woman," Kit answered quickly. "Don't fret it."

She understood Kit's last remark and blushed as she gave his sleeve a twist. He grinned at her, found a driftwood log, and placed her forcefully upon it. Then he quietly but firmly requested, "Stay here, sweetings. I have some business to transact."

She pouted but made herself as comfortable as possible and waited, watching Kit as he walked a short distance away from her with the Frenchman.

His eyes constantly darted in her direction, protectively keeping her in sight.

"Have you the money?" the Frenchman asked. "Thirty-five shillings a tub."

"It is a high price, Louis. Others pay you but twenty shillings," Kit complained.

The Frenchman smiled affably. "Yes, and they take off my hands eighty tubs, and they come regularly, my lord. You come only now and then... as the mood strikes you, and then you take but thirty tubs."

"Still, my landing crew has complained about it. They say that there is not enough in it for them," Kit argued.

"Your landing crew—what are they but nodcocks who slink, carry, hide, and run?"

"They also break heads," Kit said drily.

The Frenchman laughed. "Ah, yes, but not yours, Kit, never yours. You're far too clever."

Mynah's eyes opened wide with amazement. She could pick up words here and there, just enough to assure her that her beloved was indeed up to his neck... she still had hoped was just a lark.

And then the Frenchman spoke in English, and his English was as good as hers. What the deuce?

She was so curious she stood up and inched her way towards them. However, Kit took the Frenchman by the arm and moved him out of hearing distance.

She saw him take out a fat leather bag and place it in the man's grasp. She also saw that, oddly enough, the bag was followed by something white and gold, something that looked like an official envelope. She had seen that type of envelope before... somewhere.

Then it was over, and as if she had never heard the man speak in English, he was once again speaking French. When they returned to her, the Frenchman was speaking. "What are you complaining for, my lord? You pay me thirty-five shillings, yes. But you sell each keg for five pounds, do you not?"

Kit laughed and gave the fellow a robust slap on the back. "That we do, Louis... that we do!"

"Very well then. We are pleased... for you have made your profit... I have made mine."

"I have not done so yet. I still have the Revenue Cutters to pass through."

"May they be damned! _Bon voyage_ to you, _mon ami_ , and until we meet again," the Frenchman said, and then once again something peculiar bit Myriah. Kit and the Frenchy took each other's hands and clasped them for all the world as though they were brothers. "Soon, Louis... soon you'll be on _the_ soil—the soil that makes you what you are."

" _Oui, mon ami_ ," the Frenchman said with an elusive smile.

They parted, and Myriah watched wide-eyed as Kit stood looking after the Frenchman. He sighed, and she looked into his eyes. "You like him a great deal, don't you?"

"Louis? Why, yes, yes I do," Kit said, smiling warmly at her. "Now... if I don't mistake, the lads have loaded the galley and 'tis time I paid them their wage." He went amongst them and distributed their pay. There would be more after they had made their sale on the other side of the channel.

Kit lifted Myriah into the boat and pulled her along to the stern, and once again Captain Wimborne and his men were rowing into deep water.

One of the men grumbled that his arms and back were things of pain. Young Bilkes laughed. "Ye old goat, stop looking like a dead crow, and maybe ye'll feel a might better."

"Wot sort of talk be that, young'n?" Fry grumbled. "And if I'm not mistaken looks like the durned wind is about to start on wobblin' us," he said, staring up at the sky with his one eye.

"You sound like an old woman, Fry," one of the Winchelsea lads, a spry fellow ready for a bit of sport, bellowed.

"Old woman? Why ye wait, ye daft child. Ye'll lose ye sweet face for that priggly remark!"

They all laughed and continued their firm, steady strokes, but Myriah watched Kit's face as he stared up at the growing stormy sky. She pulled on his cutaway coat and asked, "What is it, Kit, what's wrong?"

"I don't like the scudding clouds." He stood up and began shouting affably. "All right, my fine, able buckos, let's move, on the count. Just look at the tail of that maid—she's swimming just a touch away... after her, boys."

The boat, loaded down with its weight of brandy, splashed through the growing waves, and though the mood was light as the men rowed and jested, Kit continued to frown.

"If a gale comes on us, m'lord—then wot?" asked one.

"Hold yer fiendish tongue, boy. Gale... yer fool, ain't no gales in May!" Fry cut in to answer him. A few of the men broke into mirth. They pushed on, putting the miles behind them, and made long tracks through the water, slicing their way home.

They prided themselves on their ability—the ability of arriving at their prescribed destination at the time they had stipulated. The land smugglers, a group of professional head-beaters, armed with bats lest any landsguard had the foolish intent to try and deter them, would be waiting with their lanterns and their horses to carry the cargo away... and the Wimborne crew were determined to be there on time!

"I do like the sea I do, but you, Fletcher... I don't think you do at all," Bilkes said, suddenly breaking the quiet, "but in truth I'll be more than happy to be grounded a bit."

Fletcher wasn't much for words, but he did grunt approvingly to this.

"'Tis a lot o' trouble for jest a wee bit, of pleasurin'," another said. "Lordy, but it do put bread on the table better than any other way I know."

The tubs of brandy rolled in their confines, and the men picked up a tune to its beat. The wind seemed to join in, and the music played in their heads as they stroked through the dark blue in harmony.

The salt spray splashed at their faces, and they were laughing at each other and themselves when suddenly Fletcher pointed silently and Fry hissed, "Wet's that?"

Myriah pressed herself against Kit's leg, a sudden fear clutching at her heart, for she knew.

"Look lively, lads... we're in for a run, now!" Kit shouted, oaring with determination.

"Did they see us, m'lord?" Fletcher asked.

"No, they haven't spotted us yet, but it's a cutter all right, and a swift sea vessel, she is, for she is the _Swallow_!"

A sea mist hung about in foaming clusters, and the men idled their oars quietly, their hearts in their throats, watching as the cutter passed. Her lanterns, glowing red in the night, looked like the eyes of a creature from hell, and no man made a sound as they waited for the demonic vision to continue on its way. The cutter was but thirty yards away, and they saw the tall sails white against the black sky. Each man prayed to himself they would not be spotted. Luck was on their side, for the cloudy, stormy sky had obscured the moon...

She passed, and it was like the breath of new life. They waited still, for none would move without Kit's command, and it came softly, firmly, "Swiftly now, m'fine buckos... swiftly. There's no time to lose, for she'll soon turn and head inland."

They were headed for a short, sandy beach off the village where they would be met by a band of land smugglers who would relieve them of their burden, pay them for their trouble, and allow them to continue home.

Myriah raised her head, and Kit chuckled softly at her wide-eyed, open look. He bent to whisper, "You look like a veritable kitten—all wonder. Now put your head down low—one never knows when one might be shot at."

"But, Kit..."

"Get down and stay down." He laughed and flicked her nose, and then he pointed. "There it is—there boys!"

Myriah saw the flash of a blue light they needed to find they landing channel and heard Fletcher mumble, "Aye, she shines steady—safe enough, m'lord!"

She squinted and was able to make out the dark line that designated the stretch of narrow, flat shore. Kit ordered a man to light their own lantern. The lights answered each other, and then they approached the pebbles of the beach.

Two dozen men appeared and ran out from behind rocks and trees. Another six men who led horses and wagons, appeared on the scene, and then another four, carrying wooden bats, followed.

Myriah watched as Kit and his men jumped out of the galley, and he wagged a finger at her and told her to stay put. She decided to stay out of the way in the dark for the moment and watched Kit as he sidled over to a grisly-looking man holding a lantern.

Myriah could see that something, she supposed money, was exchanged. Then all at once men seemed to surround the galley. Kit returned to her, picked her up in his arms, and without speaking set her on a nearby rock before returning to supervise the unloading.

Myriah was fascinated with the speed of their work and so engrossed she didn't see the glittering eyes of a boy bending towards her. She felt her hair touched and turned suddenly. With a scream she cringed backwards, scaring the addle-brained fellow who had played with her hair.

Kit was there and between her and the frightened youth in a moment, but pity rather than anger swept through Myriah when she had a good look at him. The lad, no more than fifteen, dirty, ragged, with large, terrified eyes, jumped about, moving his hands agitatedly in the air as he cried, "I meant no harm... no harm... pretty hair..."

A tall, wiry man appeared out of the darkness and put his arm about the boy's shoulders, his own head held high as he spoke. "'Ere now, m'lord—begging yer pardon. The lad meant nothing. He be but a half-wit. He can't 'elp 'imself, and he be always doing wot he shouldn't. 'Tis m'fault if fault is to be laid. I should've been watching 'im."

"Oh, please," Myriah said at once, "I am not angry at all. I was merely startled."

Kit patted the lad's father on his shoulder. "Never mind..." Then he chucked the boy's chin and turned to take Myriah up cradle-like, holding her like a babe. "Tis time we moved."

"I do have legs, and they are well able to carry me," Myriah said, objecting to this handling.

"I am sure, but we want no more incidents tonight."

"Oh, and I suppose that was _my fault_?"

He laughed amiably. "In truth, yes, for you are far too beautiful to be left amongst a pack of devils. Now in with you, love," he said and deposited her in her place before hopping in after her.

Lord Wimborne's crew shoved their galley into deeper water, scrambled back into the boat, and picked up their oars. Without so much as a backward look, they began the business of rowing.

Myriah looked back, though—she watched until the last landsman was out of sight. It occurred to her that those men were far different from the men who rowed Kit's galley.

" _Kit?"_

"Yes, sweetings?"

"Those men—the ones that took the brandy—are a very bad lot, I think."

"Yes, love... but what makes you say so?"

"There was a cruelty in their jests with one another, and they looked ready to bludgeon anyone in their way—there was a certain manner about them and the way they held their bats."

He said nothing to this, and Myriah quieted into thought. It was really amazing how quickly the galley had been emptied.

Just a short while ago the boat had held some thirty tubs of brandy, and now it was almost as if she had dreamt it all. Tired, she snuggled against Kit's firm leg and closed her eyes. They had been out now some eight hours, and there was still another twenty minutes to travel the shoreline to Rye harbor.

* * *

Kit glanced down at her face and for a moment was overcome with the sensation he felt. He loved her—how he loved her... and when did that happen? Probably the first time ever he clapped eyes on her.

However, the peace and beauty of the moment were suddenly shattered by the blast of fire in the air.

A shot tore through the atmosphere and reminded them that they still were not safely home. They had money in their pockets that still could be taken...

Myriah awoke with a start and felt herself squeezed between Kit's legs, for he did not wish for her to get up.

" _Heads low, lads_. It's to the marshes—we will lose the cutter in the marshes." He bent in towards his crew to speak in a low and commanding tone. "'T'will be a whale chasing an eel, so heave, lads—our lives depend upon it."

She was a swift vessel, the _Swallow,_ and she was upon them in a moment. Her guns hissed out into the night air and warned told them death was near.

Lord Wimborne's crew forgot their aches as they rowed harder than they had all night. A stranger's voice slashed through the blackness of the night, commanding them to halt, but their little galley sliced its way to safety and then the vessel at their backs could go no farther, for the canal they traveled drained into the marshes where only a small galley could thread its way through.

They turned into the waterway, which was as narrow as it was shallow. Myriah felt the sides of the boat brush against the grassy walls of the dike, and she looked up into Kit's face, alight in the overshadowed moonlight and lined with concern. They had escaped the cutter, but he was still worried, Myriah thought. She could see by the tense way in which he held himself. What more could there be if they escaped the cutter?

The beating of her heart had her gasping for air, and the exhaustion she felt left her as adrenalin pumped through her veins.

The boat moved solidly through the causeway, forking, circling with the winding movements of the dike, and then she saw the little arched bridge that marked Wimborne lands. Her joy burst from her lips. "Oh, Kit, we are home—we are really nearly home!"

"Not yet, my love—and I have the unshakable feeling that it is not over just yet."

There it was again—the unmistakable sound of gunfire in the wind. Myriah winced and listened, and like the men in the galley with her, she heard them. Dragoons had spotted them, even in the dim light... and their horses were trampling through weeds and marsh to get at them.

Myriah heard Corporal Stone's voice and realized how close they really were. Faith, he was a determined man. He must have waited all night for their return. No doubt he had planted himself and his men at the head of the dike.

"Can... can he actually see us?" she asked Kit.

"Hurry, lads," Kit whispered. He then touched her face. "Not really, but he can hear the galley trudging through the marsh. We might be taking a swim tonight."

Just as Kit said this, she felt the vines and driftwood parting all around. Suddenly they were in total darkness. They were in the cavern, and the silence as they waited blasted through her ears. She heard herself breathe and put a hand to her heart, sure that everyone could hear its pounding.

They waited, no one looking at the other, for all eyes were turned to the cavern ceiling above them. Myriah heard the water lap at the boat and wondered if the dragoons would be able to hear and recognize the sound.

"Fiend seize you stupid brutes!" Stone shouted at his men just above their cavern.

They heard the trampling of horses above their heads. They heard the shouting and the retreating as the dragoons scurried up and down along the dike, searching for the galley, and the gentlemen waited.

Twenty minutes might be thought to be a short space of time, but to the crew in the cavern, whose lives hung in the wind, it was damnably long.

At last, the silence was undeniable, and Kit lit a lantern that was set on the cavern wall. Myriah saw a wooden ladder hanging against the moss-covered wall that led to the ceiling above.

"Right then, lads," Kit quietly said, grinning, "We have come through but we will have to swim home. No sense risking coming up through here—so boots off and into the water with you. My promises still hold—so wait for my word early next week!"

He watched his men as they grumbled quietly to themselves and slumped over into the water, making the brackish wetness spray all about.

Kit turned to Myriah. "Now you, love, I am afraid you are in for another swim today, but I'll set you before the fire and see to you at home."

"Well, as to that, I think it was yesterday I took that swim. I was due for another." Myriah laughed. She slipped off his cloak and her boots and tied the laces carefully together before slinging them round her neck.

He picked her up and eased her into the cold water, and she screeched quietly to herself.

His lordship left his boots in the galley for future retrieving. He doused the light and was in beside Myriah a moment later. They swam, and waded, and swam with slow, quiet breaststrokes until they were out of the cavern's darkness and making their way downstream.

"Are you all right, my love?"

"'Tis not so very bad in the water—but, Kit, when we get out, we shall freeze. I left your cloak in the galley... does it matter?"

"My cloak? Dash it, girl—how could you when it needed a washing!" Kit teased.

She giggled, and they continued to swim until she could see the arched bridge above them. They made their way towards the embankment, and Kit scrambled into position as he turned and helped pull her out. She stopped only long enough to put on her slippers but grimaced at them for she knew they would soon be ruined.

The breeze was uncomfortable as it hit their wet bodies, and they ran the distance across the meadow until Myriah pulled away from his hold and bent over her knees. She sucked in air, and he touched her shoulder. "Myriah...?"

She heard the concern in his voice and waved it off as she nodded and returned her hand into his. The wet gown weighed her down and made it difficult, but she managed to jog along with him to the dirt pathway that led toward the Wimborne Drive.

They passed the stables, where Fletcher, wrapped in a blanket, met them at the open entrance, nodded, and turned to make his way to his quarters above the barn. Myriah smiled to herself, sure that Tabby would have endless questions for her in the morning. Goodness, it was morning!

Finally they were standing dripping in the center hallway of Wimborne Towers. They turned, saw each other, and laughed.

"Eh!" Billy shouted from above stairs. "Kit, Myriah—Kit?"

"Yes, Billy—hold a moment," Kit said, taking Myriah's hand and leading her up the stairs to Billy's room. They arrived in young Wimborne's room and stood there sopping wet, looking ridiculous while Billy took one long look at them and burst out laughing. He attempted to speak, pointed instead, and went off into another peal.

"Go take a damper!" Myriah snapped good-naturedly and then turned to Kit. "I'm going to get out of these wet clothes."

Kit outmaneuvered her and rushed to her room before her, a wicked grin on his face, "Where do you think you are going, my lord?" she asked.

"To your room, my love," he said whimsically. "To er... light your fire"

She sucked in her breath and trembled. She could not help but see Billy in the background, a grin taking over his face.

A moment later, Kit was turning her to face him and making good on his words. With deft skill he had her sopping clothes torn and off her body. She murmured a complaint, and he whispered, "There are some gowns in the attic... we'll make do..." His lips traveled down her neckline and then back up to her face, her chin, and finally her mouth. He parted her lips, and his tongue played a staccato tune with hers, teasing, cajoling, taking...

She reached for his breeches and found they were already undone, but he stepped back to throw off his wet cutaway and shirt, and she helped pull down his breeches. This time, she stood away and stared. "You are beautiful," she whispered.

He snorted. "The word is handsome!"

"Looking at you here and now... 'tis not enough, you are more..."

He picked her up and placed her on the bed. He turned her on her belly and started massaging her neck, her shoulders, her back, and then her ass. He worked her butt until she started to lift off the bed and say his name. He put his finger to her clit and teased until she pushed back at him, and then he discovered that his cock was taking over, dispelling any clear thought, and screaming her name. He rubbed it all over her ass and said on a hushed note, "Ask for it, beauty... tell me what you want."

"You know what I want—what do _you_ want?"

"I damn well want to fuck you." He felt as feral as he sounded, as primal as the action when he shoved himself inside her with a pure groan of ecstasy.
~ Eleven ~

"SO THERE YOU have it, Billy," Kit said, leaning back against the hard wood chair and sipping his coffee in a happy and leisurely fashion.

"Yes, indeed—there I have it! Damn—of all the paltry things to say, Kit." Billy snorted disgustedly as he shook his head.

Kit laughed. "Now what? Lord, but you're pesky lad."

"Pesky...? Here I sit... while you go off and have the most splendid adventure of them all—chased by the _Swallow_ herself! Dragoons all over the place... why, I'd have given almost anything to have been in it," Billy said sincerely.

Kit chuckled. "Young scamp." He looked at the mantel-clock. The hour was well past ten, and Myriah was not back yet from her walk. He found that he missed her... wanted her near. He said, as much to himself as to Billy, "She is taking an awfully long walk."

"Devil a bit—she loves walking." He sighed. "Didn't I tell you Kit, that one is pluck to the backbone? Said it was her orders I stay in bed, and Tabby made sure of that, more afraid of her than of me. Imagine, Kit." Billy chuckled.

He wanted to see her—be near her... touch her. Last night he had made love to her until they fell asleep, and she had kissed him as she got out of bed to go wash, saying she needed a walk. He'd been waiting for her to get back, wanting to tell her how he felt... wanting to get down on one knee.

He said as he got up, "Damnation, Billy, she should be back."

"Lord, you are in a fidget." Billy grinned. "Why don't you just go meet her?" He watched his brother with keen eyes.

"Confound it!" Kit exclaimed, suddenly breaking into a determined stride. "I think I _will_ go find her!"

He took a walk that led him past the stables. Fletcher was there, and he asked, "Have you seen Miss White, Fletcher?"

"Aye. She and Tabson left almost two hours ago... seemed to be in a hurry."

A sickly sensation swept through him. He knew her real name was not Miss White. He knew that Myriah had secrets. Would she have left... could she have left him... was their night together a good-bye?

He recalled now how she looked at him this morning and touched his face. He had thought it strange at the time and had held her hand, asking, "What?"

"I want this memory always..."

"You can have more than memory, sweet."

She had laughed and once more turned to look at him.

He pulled himself up and stared at Fletcher. "Which way did they go?"

"Aye then, they took the Post Road... away from Rye, and Oi only know that cuz Miss... she was cryin', and it set me to thinkin' they was leaving... her and Tabby... so Oi cut through the pasture, Oi did, jest to have a look which way they would go."

Kit Wimborne knew one thing: he didn't want to live without her. Why hadn't he told her last night how he felt, told her the truth about the smuggling?

Was that why she left? Was it because of the man, Sir Roland? Did he have something to do with this? What was her connection with him?

As though fate had decided to give him an answer, Sir Roland himself appeared. The man slowly walked his horse up the drive and stopped to nod and ask, "Is Lady Myriah up at the house?"

"Lady Myriah?" Kit felt as though someone had smacked him. Why hadn't he seen it? "No... no, she is not."

"I have an appointment with her. Could you direct me to her?" Sir Roland asked, looking wary.

"Even if I could I would not," Kit retorted irritably. "What business do you have with her?"

"She is my fiancé... we had a bit of a row, but we were leaving today. I am escorting her back to London before a scandal breaks out about her... questionable activities here at Wimborne."

Kit said, almost under his breath, "She wouldn't go with you."

"She doesn't have a choice. She will be ruined otherwise." There was a hard note in Roland's tone.

Kit's thoughts smacked one another. She had run away again. Where would she go? "I am telling you the truth. Lady Myriah and her groom left us, and I have no notion of her direction."

"If you are lying to me, Lord Wimborne, it will not go well for you or Myriah!" Sir Roland hissed as he turned his horse and left Kit staring after him.

"That one be trouble fer sure," Fletcher said quietly.

"Aye... he must have been the one her father insisted she marry... the one she was running from, my poor girl. Fletcher, I must find her. Did Tabby give you any clues... ever let anything slip?"

"Aye then, m'lord. Tabby thought ye might be wishful a knowin' that she has a grand-dad not too far from 'ere."

Kit suddenly brightened and rushed off, telling his man over his shoulder to saddle up his horse.

* * *

Myriah stood in the central hall, still in her ruined blue velvet riding habit. She fingered the yellow daffodils in the vase set on the round table, and silent tear after tear appeared.

Her grandfather, his arms outstretched, appeared first, rushing down the main staircase of Guildford House, saying her name. Just as he reached her, her father opened the door off the central hall and said, "What are you going on about... did you call—" He stopped short when he saw his daughter, and both men converged on her.

It took much tears and hugging before they were all composed sufficiently to pull her along to the library and sit her down.

Myriah played with the matching pillow of the gold brocade sofa she occupied and then looked up at the two men staring questioningly at her.

"There is... something... an urgent matter we must discuss immediately..."

"We will make it all better, Myriah... where have you been? What have you been doing?"

"I... oh, Papa... I have been so very bad..." And with that, she burst into tears.

Cajoling and cuddling ensured until the Guildford butler announced the arrival of Sir Roland.

* * *

Kit slammed the front doors closed with a resonance that shook the floors above. He crossed the hall, found the library doors, and gave them a powerful blow, but then he stood in the opening as he went into deep thought.

A moment later he was taking the stairs two by two to his brother's room. "You know more than you let on. Myriah has confided in you... so tell me..."

"She told you, sort of... she doesn't want to marry this brute, but he threatened her, and she had to go meet him, and I tell you what, Kit, I think she is more worried about him exposing us... than ruining her with scandal," Billy said.

"Aye... he was just here and she is gone."

"Right then, she must have gone off to her grandfather's... said he lived not far down the road."

"I'm off, Billy, for I mean to find her and make it right."

"Good—what the deuce are you waiting for?"

* * *

Roland regarded Lord Whitney sourly before he sighed and said, "I regret, my lord, that your daughter has placed herself in a scandalous position from which I can see only one escape. We must immediately wed—before the rumors start."

"And what scandalous position are you talking about?" stuck in Lord Guildford irritably.

"Apparently Myriah has been staying with Lord Wimborne and his brother, alone at Wimborne without the benefit of a chaperone of any sort."

Father and grandfather turned to look at Myriah, who felt herself blush darkly, but she stood up and waved a hand at Roland. "He is a cad and will ruin me if I don't marry him, but, Father... I don't wish to marry him. I will to save you disgrace, but only for you and Grandfather."

"Nonsense, what can he mean, saying you were alone, when Lady Tallant was with you the entire time?" Lord Guilford said.

Myriah turned stunned eyes to him, but he looked cool and unshakeable and she said nothing. She turned back and saw Roland was about to lose his temper.

"I see what it is... but, in addition to that, the Wimborne men are smugglers, and I will expose them to Corporal Stone if Myriah doesn't marry me."

"Then expose them. If they are smugglers, so you must," Myriah's father said impatiently. "I would not allow my daughter to marry you if you were the last man on earth. How dare you run her to ground like this? No wonder she ran away from the idea of marriage with you."

Sir Roland was red-faced and furious. "Very well then, my lord, I bid you good-day and it will"—he turned to Myriah—"give me great pleasure to turn in the Wimbornes, scoundrels that they are!"

"No... no!" Myriah turned to her father and clutched his lapels. "Papa... I have to marry him... I can't let him do that to Kit and Billy... I can't!"

"Absolutely not—scoundrels, you say? Ha! If my daughter would rather marry you than let you hurt them, they could not be anything of the sort, and I will see your name dragged through the mud if you—"

"My lord," a cool, authoritative voice said from the library doorway.

Myriah turned to see a tall, muscular man, dressed in navy riding attire, his hat in his hand and his wavy, honey-colored hair framing his handsome face, standing there taking command, and her heart melted. She ran to him, and they clutched one another's hands.

"Kit... Kit you should not be here... he... he means you harm."

"I know, beloved... but he can't have his way, not today." Lord Wimborne turned to Myriah's father, ignoring the spluttering Sir Roland, and said, "If I may have a word with you"—he nodded also at Myriah's grandfather—"and you, my Lord Guildford, in private..."

"No! I shall not be shut out of this," Myriah declared.

Kit laughed. "No, and I don't suppose you should be." He turned to Sir Roland and sighed. "And on second thought, he might as well stay as well."

"For what... what are you talking about?" Myriah frowned as he took her hand to his lips, led her to a ladies chair, and saw her seated.

Kit dropped his greatcoat, hat, and gloves on another chair and turned to her father and grandfather, ignoring Sir Roland. "Myriah is under the impression... indeed, it was the picture we painted, that we are smugglers. However, we are not, far from it, in fact."

"What... impossible... I was with you... I saw..."

"You saw a façade. You see, when I sold out and returned home to care for Wimborne I found poor management had left it looking as though we were in debt. We were not. However, I allowed it to be circulated that we were, as I used this as a cover. Smuggling, you see, was an excellent disguise whilst we got our messages to and from France."

"You are a spy." Myriah almost whistled.

"He is lying! He is a smuggler, I know it!" Sir Roland spluttered.

"But if you were working for the Crown, why did they shoot Billy?" Myriah persisted.

"Precisely why I made up my mind it was time to pull out. The war is near its end, and seven years of my life and a year of Billy's is quite enough for the Wimbornes."

"Yes, but I don't understand..."

"The problem was this. The Regent could only promise that if we were caught our names would be cleared... eventually. However, he had no way of keeping us from being shot during the process. We couldn't take the excisemen and Riding Officers into our confidence because leaks do happen—many because the _gentlemen_ slip a coin or two to one or two for information. Too much depended on the secrecy of the mission. It had to appear as though we were merely smugglers and nothing more. The men were in fact paid from the profits we derived."

"But then, who was Dibbs?" Myriah asked, still amazed.

"He worked in the capacity of go-between. I had gone to London as usual and received the papers they wanted delivered to our agent in France, who by the way is a personal friend—we fought together in Spain. However, they had one last-minute item they wished to have delivered. Dibbs brought it and received the news from me that I would make no more trips. By now, I have been replaced."

"Replaced?" Roland expostulated. "You should be hanged—a confessed smuggler doing it up brown with your wild tales!"

"Contrary to popular opinion," Ignoring Roland, Kit continued, "the Wimborne estates are intact." He turned to Sir Roland and said, "You have no business here. However, do stay."

Sir Roland started to object when Kit waved him off and turned to Myriah's father. "Lord Whitney, I would like your blessings and permission to marry your daughter, but make no mistake, marry her I will."

"You have my blessings and my permission, but as to the rest, it is up to Myriah..."

Myriah was already diving into Kit's arms, and her grandfather and father turned to one another and shook hands. Kit, however, turned back to Sir Roland and said quietly, "I understand your position in this... and have made a decision." He took out a card from his inner pocket and handed it to Roland. "Send your collection of debts to me, and my man will attend to them. That should leave you free to set your estates in order and marry where you will."

"My debts are substantial," Roland said stiffly.

"I am sure, and my pockets are deep."

"Why?"

"I have learned a thing or two in war. Desperate men do desperate things." He sighed and added, "Just send me the papers."

Roland inclined his head, but apparently he could not at that moment find any words, for he then rigidly turned and walked out.

Kit turned to Myriah and softly whispered, "Would you have married me even though you thought me a smuggler?"

"I would have done all I could to stop your evil work." She giggled. "But I would have married you were you the King of Smugglers himself!"

He grinned broadly and kissed her lips. "Then order your gown... and, Myriah, make it soon... for I won't be kept from you long..."

"You won't be kept from me at all," she peeped at him impishly.

And all three of her men threw back their heads and roared!

DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT TO SIR ROLAND KEYES?

_PREORDER:_ _MISS LACEY_

An unedited excerpt:

A neat black carriage emblazoned with the owner's coat of arms was swiftly tooled around a tricky bend in the road. There was scarcely any moonlight breaking through the heavy sky. Clouds scudded, their texture promising spring showers. The coach's occupant had reason to leave London in haste, quite excellent reasons indeed, and therefore urged his driver onward in spite of the threatening weather.

Sir Roland Keyes had that very day sustained some damaging losses. The elfin woman he had courted all season for her beauty and her fortune had rejected him. Damn, but what a rejection! It had been enough to remember for all time. Ruefully he recalled the way in which Myriah had turned him away. He had nearly had her for his own, but then Kit Wimborne entered the scene and all was over.

To be sure, he had behaved the cad in the end and deserved no better than he received, but he had been desperate. Ah, what a blow, what humiliation! He had left Myriah in the arms of the dratted Kit Wimborne and returned to London to find his creditors at his door.

Fiend seize their souls! He needed time, just a bit more time to come about. He had managed to stave off some of them with the winnings of a horse that had come in for him that very day, but the others...? Well, the only thing left was for him to absent himself.

The future? It looked black, but, he had looked into himself and decided he would never behave so badly ever again. Dire straits had made him a scoundrel. No more. He owed it to his tenants to bring things about, and damn, but he would!

Myriah had touched his heart. His time with her, wanting her, though he had not been in love with her, had changed him. She was a spirited soul and he had imagined that they could have been friends if she had accepted to marry him.

Ah well, that was not to be.

Thus, with his heart very much intact, he made his way up north. Nottingham was his objective. There, he would be near his own estates, just ten miles away, but he would hide out with his good friend, the viscount. He was a few years older, but that had not interfered with their youthful friendship. Indeed, Bussingham would suit him now and until he could repair his financial situation.

Also...he had heard there was a notable heiress in Nottingham. Perhaps... _ah bah,_ there it was again! He did not really wish to go that road _, but what choice did he have?_

* * * * *

A lone rider, not overly distinguished in appearance and, in fact, bearing the overall impression of a youth, schooled a high spirited black gelding over the dark North Road.

In a straw basket padded with a small knit blanket, secured to the side of her saddle, lay a trusting toy poodle. It barked as its owner suddenly gave a right lead and scooted off into a controlled canter.

Lacey's instincts had been tickling her for the past fifteen minutes. She was certain she was not alone on the dark road. Someone was watching...following her!

Why? What would anyone want with an indigent lad, and that was just how she was disguised. In boy's clothing! She had donned a weathered peaked hat, one she had purchased from her young groom. She had tucked her short cropped head of copper curls inside her hat, and put the total picture together with her groom's torn buckskin short coat, and loose britches. The riding boots were her own.

The disguise was a precaution for her long trip north. No one, she guessed, would want anything to do with a poor boy. At the back of her saddle, resting on her horse's rump was her neatly packed portmanteau. In her hessian boot was a fat wad of cash, and at her waist, a small ladies pistol. She fingered it now.

It would be foolhardy to take on more speed in the dark. The roads were unfamiliar. But the more time that went by, the more certain she became that someone _was_ following her.

She had not long to concern herself about this, for suddenly, out of the thicket, came two dark riders.

You can get your preorder at all sites.

ShadowLove—Stalkers is hot, Hot, HOT

Avid vampire and paranormal romance enthusiasts are in for a darkly delicious thrill when they sink their teeth into Claudy Conn's newest series, _ShadowLove—Stalkers_. Conn has a gift for character and plot development that sets her work apart from other romance novelists.

_ShadowLove—Stalkers_ is filled with steaming action and dramatic tension... Claudy delicately plants the seeds for future development and characters without distracting from the excitement and romance of Stalkers. The result is that she has a paranormal, vampire series, of romance novels, which carries her own unique and spicy aroma.

Claudy fills her stories with enough passion to make the pages spark, sizzle, and steam. She doesn't skimp when it comes to building sexy into her characters. The women are luscious and the men... well, the action doesn't stop with the plot. She really knows how to make us tingle with anticipation for her next book.

_ShadowLove—Stalkers_ is hot, Hot, HOT... and yes, I am blushing.

~ Vonnie Faroqui, _Ink Slinger's Whimsey_

Five Cups and a CTTR (Coffee Time Reviewer's Recommend) Award

_ShadowLove—Stalkers_ is a story that immediately hooks the reader. It reminds me of a roller coaster just beginning, only to plunge into speed, drawing the reader into non-stop action. Intense and spellbinding, this paranormal romance kept this reader engrossed until the conclusion. I loved the passion and chemistry between the main characters. With tremendous action and well thought out characters, this fantastic read sizzles and sparks like a firecracker.

~ _Coffee Time Romance & More_

Five Stars for ShadowHeart—Slayer

This second in Conn's Shadow series is filled with vampires, a vampire slayer, demons, wizards, a Fae prince and an unlikely romance. Claudy Conn does an excellent job of making this a standalone story while incorporating some of the characters from the first book and introducing us to several new characters. The war is still brewing and now the fae are becoming involved. Can't wait for the next book in the series.

This is another one I couldn't put down and read in a single sitting. I got so caught up in the action I was sad to see it end. Fans of the paranormal romance, urban fantasy and vampire genres should enjoy this as well.

~ _Wild About Bones_

### Acclaim for the Legend Series

Spellbound—Legend: _One hot and thrilling book_

I fell for all three of the main characters, fun loving Maxie, dark and brooding Julian, and one hot Fae, Breslyn. However, it wasn't just the characters that kept me on the edge of my seat, it was the entire involved plot that included jealously, betrayal, magic, murder, and, of course, hot passion... Like all good thrillers, it seemed as one problem was solved another would spring up. The last few pages had me hoping that this is the first of a new series that will be worth each torturous wait for the next book. The well-written out mixture of myth and legend, not to mention the characters, all in today's world has me Joyfully Recommending _Spellbound—Legend_ as one book you won't want to miss.

~ Jo, _Joyfully Reviewed_

Shee Willow—Legend:

A great combination of paranormal, scorching romance, and suspense!

Ms. Conn again brings readers a different side of lore and allure surrounding the Fae. Willow and Shayne's storyline was magical, in the sense that you knew something greater, deeper was in store for them. Then add Breslyn, the Dagda Prince, childhood crush of Willow, into the mix... just get comfy, because you are in for a heck of a rollercoaster... Thankfully, another title will be released soon. I cannot wait until the simmering conflict between the Seelie Fae and Unseelie Fae reaches its boiling point!

~ Monica Solomon, _The Romance Readers Connection_

Free Falling—Legend: _I loved this story!_

There is so much chemistry between Z and Dante and Chancemont just oozes sex appeal. I am chomping at the bit to read the second and third books in this series.

~ _Wild About Bones_
