On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 23

Helena watched as a cloaked figure stepped gingerly from the depths of the wardrobe. Glancing fearfully at the bed, the figure hesitated — too small and slight to be a man, but the cloak's hood was up, hiding all clues to identity.

Reassured by Helena's stillness, the figure drew itself up, then glanced around; its gaze fell on the table.

Lit by the faint moonlight slanting through the open window, the pearls glowed with an unearthly radiance.

The figure inched nearer, then nearer still. Then one small hand came out from beneath the cloak, fingers extending to touch the iridescent strands.

Helena saw the fingers shake, saw the last moment of hesitation. Realized in a flash who the figure must be. There was a wealth of kindliness in her voice when she asked, "Ma petite, what are you doing here?"

The figure's head jerked up. Helena pushed upright in the bed. The figure uttered a strangled squeak, halfway to a shriek; frozen, she stared at Helena.

"Come." Helena beckoned. "Do not scream. Come and tell me."

Heavy footsteps shook the corridor. The figure's head jerked toward the door, then she rushed — first this way, then that — in total panic.

Helena muttered a French curse and struggled to rise from the bed.

The figure yelped, rushed to the open window. She learned out — the room was on the first floor.

"No!" Helena ordered. "Come back!" Centuries of command rang in her voice.

The figure turned uncertainly.

Simon burst through the door.

With a shriek of pure fear, the figure jumped out of the window.

Simon cursed and rushed to look.

"Good God!" He stared. "She's landed on the loggia" Leaning out, he waved. "Come back here, you little fool!"

Helena rolled her eyes. Shrugging on her robe, she hurried to join him. The sight beyond the window made her lay a hand on his arm. "Don't say anything more."

But Simon had already fallen grimly silent.

Outside, the cloaked figure, weaving and staggering, was attempting to walk one of the beams of the loggia that extended away from the house over the flagstone terrace. If she overbalanced and fell, broken limbs would be the least of it.

The figure teetered precariously; time and again, she swayed, arms flailing — every time, she regained her balance. The heavy cloak swung about her legs, a dangerous encumbrance. Under her breath, Helena prayed.

"My stars," Simon breathed. "I think she's going to make it."

"Don't speak too soon and tempt fate."

In the gloom of the gardens, they could just make out Martin hovering by the shrubbery, and Sugden on the path to the kennels. Both remained frozen, silent witnesses to the girl's perilous flight. No one made the slightest sound, the slightest movement, did nothing to distract her.

After what seemed an eternity, the wildly lurching figure reached the end of the beam where it joined with an upright support. Simon tensed; Helena sank her fingers into his sleeve. "You are not following her."

Simon didn't even glance at her. "Of course not. No need."

They waited silently as the figure grappled and grasped, then partly swung, partly fell, partly scrambled to the ground, landing in an ungainly heap.

Simon immediately leaned out of the window. "She's on the ground by the loggia outside the music room!"

His ringing call propelled everyone into action. The girl jumped to her feet and tore off toward the shrubbery.

Then she saw Martin closing from that direction.

With a shriek, she pivoted and fled in the opposite direction, toward the rose garden and the darkness of the wood beyond.

She was almost there, almost to the path that led into the shadows, when she ran directly into Lucifer, who'd left the house through the front door and circled around the east wing.

Luc heard Simon thunder to Helena's room, but no one had passed either him or Simon, so how…? Via the window? But Martin, Sugden, or Phyllida would have seen… how had anyone got past them all?

Striding into the west corridor, he saw Simon dash into Helena's room. He paused, poised to react, then he heard Simon speak. Confused, Luc waited — there was clearly no drama occurring in the room, no danger to Helena.

What the devil was going on? He was about to stride to Helena's room and find out when he heard Simon's call.

"She's on the ground by the loggia…"

She.

The word stopped him in his tracks. The possibilities crashed down on him. Could they all have been wrong? Had Anne gone out of her window and around the outside of the house? Or had she not even been in her room but in Helena's?

Swinging around, he strode for the east wing.

Amelia was hovering outside Anne's door; she'd heard Simon's call but the house was too massive for her to make out his words. But she saw Luc coming, understood enough. She didn't hesitate.

She opened Anne's door. "Anne?" No reply. The bed was draped in dense shadows. "Anne!"

"Huh? What…?" Pushing her thick brown hair from her face, Anne groggily sat up, peering at Amelia. "What's the matter?"

Amelia beamed at her. Relief and newfound excitement rushed through her. "Nothing, nothing — nothing to worry about."

Sounds from outside reached them; Amelia rushed to the window, flung back the curtains, threw up the sash. Behind her, she heard Luc reach the room and step inside.

"What's going on?" Anne asked from the bed.

After the faintest pause, Luc replied, "I'm not sure."

Amelia heard the profound relief in his voice, could feel the irrational dread lift from his—their—shoulders. Holding back the curtains, she leaned out as Luc joined her. A second later, Anne, dragging a robe about her, pushed in alongside.

The sight that met their eyes was at first incomprehensible — a trio of figures wrestling on the lawn, detail obscured by the dense shadows cast by the huge trees of the wood. Then the trio resolved into two larger figures supporting the third toward the house; the smaller figure resisted, but weakly.

Beneath them, a door opened; Amanda stepped onto the terrace. She waved to the group. "Bring her here."

They changed direction; a moment later they passed out of the shadows and features became clear. Martin and Lucifer were gently but determinedly escorting a slight female, cloaked, shaking her head, sobbing hysterically. Her hood had fallen back revealing lustrous brown locks.

Luc frowned. "Who is it?"

Amelia suddenly realized.

It was Anne who answered, staring at the figure round-eyed. "My God — that's Fiona! What on earth is going on?"

It was the third time she'd asked, but the explanation wasn't going to be easy, and they didn't have all the answers.

"We'll explain tomorrow." Luc swung around and strode out of the room; they heard him running down the corridor toward the stairs.

Amelia started after him.

"Amelia!"

She turned back, met Anne's eyes. "I truly can't stop now, but I promise we'll explain all tomorrow morning. Please — just go back to bed."

Fervently hoping Anne would do so, Amelia hurried out, closing the bedroom door behind her. She started down the corridor, then remembered Emily. She paused by Emily's door, listening, then eased it open. She tiptoed in, just close enough to be sure Emily was still sound asleep — doubtless dreaming innocent — or possibly not so innocent — dreams.

Inwardly sighing with relief, she retreated, then hurried on toward the stairs. At their head, she came upon Helena and Minerva being escorted down by Simon.

Simon looked up. "They've got her."

"I know. I saw."

Minerva sighed. "The poor child. We'll have to get to the bottom of this, for I simply will not believe it was all her doing. She was never a bad girl." She paused, one hand gripping the balustrade, a frown forming in her eyes. Then she glanced upward. "Someone should check on Portia and Penelope." Minerva glanced at Amelia.

She nodded. "I will. Then I'll come down."

Minerva resumed her descent. "Tell them they must stay in their beds."

Already headed up the stairs, Amelia doubted any such injunction was likely to stop those two; to her mind, their only hope was that they'd slept soundly and hadn't been disturbed.

That hope was dashed the instant she cracked open Portia's door — and discovered Luc's younger sisters fully dressed, leaning far out of the window, presumably watching Fiona being led into the house two floors below.

She stepped inside, shut the door with a click. "What do the pair of you think you're doing?"

They glanced back at her; not a glimmer of guilt showed in either face.

"We're observing the culmination of your plan." Penelope turned back to the window.

"They've got her inside." Portia straightened, then walked to Amanda.

Penelope followed. "I really didn't think the plan would work, but it has. I did think it might be Fiona — she was at all the places where things were taken, after all." She fixed her spectacled gaze on Amelia's face. "Do we have any idea why she did it?"

Amelia had no idea where to start in the task of putting these two in their place. She wasn't even sure it was possible. Nevertheless, she drew a deep breath. "I bear a message from your mama — you're to stay in your beds."

Both girls looked at her as if she'd run mad.

"What?" Portia said. "While all this is going on—"

"You expect us meekly to close our eyes and fall asleep?"

One breath wasn't going to be enough. "No, but—"

Amelia broke off, raised her head. Listened.

Portia and Penelope did, too. An instant later, they all heard it again — a muffled scream. They rushed to the window.

"Can you see…?" Amelia asked.

They all scanned the gardens, even darker now; the moon was rapidly waning.

"There!" Penelope pointed across the lawn to where two struggling figures were just discernible on the path beside the rose garden.

"Who…?" Amelia asked, but the clenching of her heart told her.

"Well, if Fiona's downstairs," Portia said, "then that must be Anne."

"The fool!" Penelope said. "How senseless."

Amelia didn't stop to argue; she was already out of the door.

"No — just think," Portia said. "That man must be part of the syndicate—

Amelia left them to their deductions — they were better at it than her — and with luck it would keep them where they were, arguing, well out of harm's way. She plunged down the main stairs, screaming for Luc, knowing she dared not stop to explain.

As far as she'd been able to see, the man — whoever he was — had his hands around Anne's throat.

"Luc!" She hit the front hall at a run, skidded on the tiles as she turned and flung herself down the east corridor. Via the garden hall was the fastest route to Anne — she took it without thinking.

She burst onto the lawn, much closer to the struggling pair — still struggling, thank God! As she pounded on, she realized, and called, "Anne! Anne!"

The larger figure stilled, then the configuration rearranged itself — then with a curse she heard, the man flung Anne aside and raced for the wood.

She was gasping when she reached Anne; at least the blackguard had flung her onto the lawn, not into the stone wall. Anne was coughing, gasping, struggling to sit up. Amelia helped her to sit. "Who was it? Do you know?"

Anne shook her head. "But—" She wheezed, then tried gamely again, "I think he was among the guests last night." She hauled in another breath. "He thought I was Fiona." Her fingers clutched Amelia's. "If you hadn't called… he was trying to kill me — her. As soon as he looked and realized I wasn't her…"

Amelia patted her shoulder. "Stay here." She looked at the darkness, of the wood. She had to make an immediate decision. Had Fiona taken the necklace and passed it on before being caught? She didn't know. Nor did Anne. "When Luc comes, tell him I've followed the man — I'm not going to tackle him, just keep him in sight until Luc and the others reach us."

Freeing her fingers from Anne's, Amelia rose and ran on. The path led straight into the wood; the trees closed around her, enclosing her in gloom. She hurried on, no longer running but moving fast, her slipper-shod feet padding all but silently on the leaf-strewn paths. She knew these woods, not as well as Luc did, but better than anyone who'd only recently come to the area possibly could.

There were only so many ways the man could go; it was easy to guess he'd veer to the east, putting as much distance between himself and the Chase as he could. She doubted he'd keep running — crashing along the narrow tracks would invite pursuit — so with luck…

Ten minutes into the wood, her decision bore fruit. She caught a glimpse of a large shadowy figure through the trees ahead. A minute later, she saw him clearly.

He was walking, striding along, quickly but without panic.

Silent and determined, she settled to track him.

Astonished, Anne watched Amelia disappear into the wood, her throat too raw to voice any protest. As soon as she'd caught her breath, she struggled to her feet and limped back to the house.

She didn't have to go far to find Luc. He was standing on the path outside the east wing, looking up at the window high above from which Portia and Penelope hung, yelling and gesticulating toward the rose garden and the wood.

They saw Anne, and shrieked, "There she is!"

Luc swung around, then he was beside her, hugging her, holding her. "Are you all right?"

Anne nodded. "Amelia…"

Luc felt his heart plummet. "Where is she?"

He held Anne away from him and looked into her face.

She coughed, then hoarsely enunciated, "In the woods — she said to tell you she wasn't going to try and catch him, just keep him in sight until you came…"

He smothered a curse — an expression of sheer horror Anne didn't need to hear. Amelia might not intend to catch the man, but he might catch her. He pushed Anne toward the house. "Go inside — tell the others."

His mind was already with Amelia. Turning, he raced for the wood.

Amelia slipped along beneath the trees, increasingly cautious. While the wood at first had felt, if not comfortable, then at least familiar, the trees had grown progressively denser, older, the paths beneath their gnarled branches more dark, the air more weighted with age. Ahead, she could hear the regular thud of the man's boots; he wasn't trying to skulk but was steadily tramping on. A quick mental survey had suggested he intended keeping to the wood to where it ended on the rise above Lyddington.

He was clever enough to recognize the unwisdom of rushing — one trip over a tree root could incapacitate him and leave him waiting for his pursuers to rescue him. Also clever enough to take the least exposed route to see him safe home, assuming he was staying somewhere about Lyddington.

The more she thought of how clever he was proving, the more uneasy, the more wary she became. But the thought of the Cynster necklace, the notion of following him to his lair, and then waiting to point the way to Luc and the others who she was sure must be close on her heels kept her putting one foot in front of the other.

Then the ground started to rise. She glimpsed the man ahead and above; she craned her head, trying to fix his direction — her foot hit an exposed root. She stumbled. Swallowing a curse, she fetched up against a nearby bole — and snapped off a dry twig.

The sound cut through the heavy air like a pistol shot.

She froze.

About her, the forest seemed to stir, menacingly breathe. She waited — only then remembered that her gown, the walking gown she'd changed into, was primrose yellow. If she was visible from where he was…

Then his footfalls started again. The same steady rhythm, in the same direction.

She drew breath, waited for her pulse to slow, then went on, even more cautiously than before.

He was following a rough track that led up a short rise, then dipped into a heavily wooded dell. She was deep in the trees before she realized she'd lost the repetitive tramp of his footsteps. She stopped. Strained her ears, but heard nothing beyond the usual woodland night sounds. A distant hoot here, a furtive rustling there, the creak of branches rubbing high above. Nothing that signified man.

Yet… she couldn't see how she'd lost him.

Ahead, the track widened; stepping even more warily, she went on. The track opened into a small natural clearing closely ringed by trees.

Again she paused and listened; hearing nothing, she walked forward, her slippers whispering on the soft leaves.

She was almost across the clearing when sensation swept her spine.

She glanced back.

Gasped.

Whirled to face the man she'd been following.

His bulk blocked the path between her and the Chase. He was tall and wide, with close-cropped dark hair… her mouth dropped open as she recognized the man she and Portia had met near the kennels.

He smiled — evilly. "Well, well — how helpful."

Her heart thumped, but she snapped her lips shut and lifted her chin. "Don't be daft! I have no intention whatever of helping you in any way."

Her only hope was to keep him talking — here and as loudly as possible — for as long as she could.

He took a swaggering step forward, eyes narrowing when she only tilted her chin higher; she'd had years of dealing with men who sought to intimidate with sheer size. Apparently accepting she was not about to make a bolt for it — into the dense woods — she knew how far she would get — he halted and looked down at her, lip curling with contempt.

"Ah, but you will help me, you see — to a nice slice of your husband's wealth. I don't know what happened back there" — with his head, he indicated the Chase—"but I'm experienced enough to know when to cut my losses." His chilling smile returned. "And when to seize an opportunity fate throws my way."

He tensed to step forward and grasp her arm; she stopped him with an utterly patronizing look. "If you really are clever enough to know when to cut and run, then you'd better start running. There's absolutely no possibility my husband will pay very much for my safe return, if that's the direction your mind is taking."

His smile didn't waver; he nodded. "That's my tack, right enough, but you can save your breath — I've seen the way he looks at you."

She blinked. "You have? How?"

The look he gave her suggested he wasn't sure what her tack was. "Like he'd cut off his right arm before he'd let you go."

She fought not to grin delightedly. "No." Lips pinched, she stuck her nose in the air. "You're quite wrong you know — he never did love me. Our marriage was arranged."

He gave a disgusted snort. "You can stow the guff. If it'd been Edward, I might have believed you, but that brother of his always was a painfully straight dealer. Arranged or not, he'll pay, and pay well, to have you back unharmed — without any public fuss."

His eyes narrowed to mean and heartless shards as he emphasized the last words. He went to step forward.

Again she stopped him, this time with an abject sigh. "I can see I'm going to have to tell you the truth."

She glanced up through her lashes, could see the urge to get on, get away, taking her with him, war with the need to know why she thought his plan doomed. He knew better than to argue, but…

"What truth?"

It came out as a growl, a warning to be quick.

She hesitated, then asked, "What's your name?"

His eyes glittered. "Jonathon Kirby, although what that's got to do with—"

"I do like to know to whom I'm confessing."

"So tell me — and make it quick. We don't have all night."

She lifted her head. "Very well, Mr. Kirby. The truth I apparently need to confess to you concerns the how and why of my marriage. Which is also the reason my husband won't pay any great sum for my return."

She rushed on, speaking the words as fast as they came into her head, knowing she had to keep him there for just a little longer — Luc and the others couldn't be far away. "I said our marriage was arranged, and it was — for money. He doesn't have much — well, that's an understatement — he doesn't really have any, not… well, what one might call cash as such. Land he has, but you can't eat land, can you? — and you certainly can't gown girls for their comeouts in hay — so you see, it was imperative he marry for money, and so we did, so he got my dowry, but with all the urgent bills and the repairs and so on — well, if you've been about here for more than a day, you must have seen the working gangs — so what I'm trying to say is that there's hardly any left, and he won't pay you much because he can't."

She had to pause for breath.

Kirby stepped menacingly nearer. "I've heard enough." He leaned close, thrust his face close to hers. "What sort of fool do you take me for? I checked — of course, I did!" His voice dripped scorn. "As soon as I realized the possibility might arise to cozen one of his sweet little sisters. No joy there, but his wife's an even better mark. I don't even have to try to charm you, and you won't be on my hands for long. The man's as rich as bloody Croesus and he worships the ground you walk on — he'll pay a small fortune for you, and that's precisely what I'm going to demand."

His features had contorted with some ugly emotion; Amelia set her jaw and stared him down, her belligerence fueled by desperate necessity, and the irrational irritation of knowing she was half-right and he was half-wrong. "You're the fool if you believe that!" Eyes narrowing, she planted her fists on her hips and glared. "We didn't marry for love — he does not love me." A complete and utter lie, but she could put her heart and soul into her next declaration: "And he's next kin to a pauper — he hasn't a coin to bless himself with. I'm his wife, for heaven's sake! Don't you think I'd know?"

She flung her arms wide on the words — and glimpsed something from the corner of her eye. Until he'd stepped close, Kirby had blocked her view of the path into the clearing; looking past him, she saw Luc, standing motionless at the clearing's edge, his dark gaze locked, not on Kirby, but on her face. On her eyes.

For one instant, time stood still. Her heart contracted; she felt…

Kirby read her face.

He turned with a roar.

Amelia jumped, gasped, skittered back as Kirby flung himself at Luc, one huge fist rising, swinging.

She screamed.

Luc ducked at the very last minute; she didn't see what happened, but Kirby's body jerked, then the big man bent forward, only to straighten abruptly as Luc's fist connected with his jaw.

She winced at the sound, quickly scuttled farther away as Kirby staggered back. The close-packed trees gave her little room to move, but although Kirby's gaze flicked to her, he kept his attention on Luc.

Who, after one glance at Amelia, stepped into the clearing. That one graceful step held immeasurably more menace than anything Kirby had done.

Kirby groaned, slumped, then straightened; a knife flashed in his fist.

Amelia gasped. Tensed.

Luc stilled, his gaze on the blade, then he resumed his slow, prowling approach.

Kirby crouched a little, spread his arms wide, started to circle.

Luc drifted aside.

Amelia pressed back among the trees… a too-recent memory of Amanda with a knife at her throat flooded her…

Kirby lunged with the knife. Luc weaved back, just out of reach.

Horrified, Amelia stared — Kirby was quite plainly aiming for Luc's face. Her husband's beautiful fallen-angel face. A face Luc himself barely noticed, and certainly — contrary to what Kirby was imagining — felt no vanity over protecting.

She was very attached to that face — exactly as it was.

Jaw setting, she glanced around. Her gaze fell on a fallen branch — a nice, stout oak branch — large enough for a cosh, small enough for her to heft — best of all, close enough and free of debris so she could lift it undetected.

Kirby's back was to her. The branch was in her hands before she'd finished the thought.

She paused, gathered her strength, took one step as she lifted the branch high—

Kirby sensed her, started to turn—

She brought the branch down as hard as she could. It broke with a satisfying crack over Kirby's head.

He didn't go down. But he wobbled.

Very slowly shook his head.

Lips grimly set, Luc stepped forward, caught Kirby's wrist, holding the knife at bay. With his other fist, he delivered the coup de grace—Kirby dropped like a stone to the leaf-strewn ground.

Clutching the remnants of her club, Amelia stared. "Is he…?"

Luc glanced at her, then bent and removed the knife. "Unconscious. I don't think he'll wake for a while."

In the distance, they heard voices, calling, coming nearer, yet here and now, there was just them.

And the silence.

Still ringing with all she'd said.

She frantically replayed all she'd gabbled to Kirby — how much had Luc heard? He could have been there for some time… but he couldn't possibly believe… think she believed…?

She dropped her club, pressed her hands together, cleared her throat. "I—"

"You—"

They both stopped, gazes locking — locked. She felt like she was drowning in the intensity of his eyes. Her lungs seized, as if she stood teetering on the brink of… happiness or despair, she wasn't sure which.

Stiffly, Luc stepped nearer, reached for her hands. Then he sighed and hauled her into his arms. Crushed her close. "I want to shake you for running off alone into danger." He growled the words into her curls, his arms an iron cage about her.

Then she felt his arms ease.

"But… first…" He drew back, looked into her face. "I have to tell you something — something I should have told you long ago." His lips twisted. "Two somethings, if truth be told. And they are the truth — the real truth." He drew in a breath; his eyes held hers. "I—"

"Hroo-hroo! Hroo!"

Luc turned; they both stared. "Damn!" Releasing her, he faced the path; a steady crashing and rhythmic thudding were rolling toward them. "They've let the dogs out."

On the disbelieving words, hounds came bounding up, a veritable tide, joyous and excited, thoroughly delighted to have found their master. It wasn't just a few dogs, however, but the entire pack. Luc stood before Amelia; clutching the back of his coat, she pressed close, not frightened but in danger of being batted off her feet by so many whipping tails and bumptiously overjoyed canines.

"Down!" Luc thundered. "Sit!"

Eventually, they did, but clearly believed they were due a great deal more thanks for having acquitted themselves so well.

Luc had just restored some semblance of order when the human tide descended. Portia and Penelope, more familiar with the woods, led the way, running and ducking branches ahead of Lucifer, Martin, Sugden, and a disgusted Simon.

They were all out of breath when they piled into the clearing.

"You got him!" wheezed Portia, one hand clutching her side.

Luc glanced briefly at Kirby, then Amelia, then he looked at his sister. "We did." He continued to look at Portia. "Who let out the pack?"

"We did, of course." Penelope's tone stated that the decision had been fully evaluated and only a fool would dare challenge it. "They all reached the first fork, and didn't know which way you'd gone. The dogs were the only way to trace you."

Luc looked at her, then sighed. Patsy pressed close, pushing her nose into his hand, whining with quiet joy.

"What's the story, then?" Arm braced against a tree while he struggled to catch his breath, Martin nodded at Kirby's slumped form.

Luc looked down, then shook his head. "As to that, I'm not sure — but his name's Jonathon Kirby… and I understand he's acquainted with Edward."

Which, of course, told Amelia just how much of her tirade Luc had heard — all of it. She was still wincing at the thought when, hours later, she finally climbed the main stairs and headed down the short corridor to their rooms.

Dawn could not be far off.

Getting back to the house had proved an unexpected effort, not least because, with the villain caught and answers to all their questions doubtless to come, the determination that had fueled them all night abruptly waned. They slumped. Their feet dragged.

Luc dispatched Sugden, Portia, and Penelope to return the pack to the kennels. They went ahead, the hounds still alert, ready to dash off after anything at the slightest excuse.

Kirby, roused ungently, was too groggy to walk unsupported. Martin, Lucifer, and Simon took turns chivying him along in Luc and Amelia's wake; Luc was the only one who could lead them unerringly through the woods back to the Chase.

They'd arrived half an hour earlier to questions and exclamations. Portia and Penelope had said only that all was well before continuing to the kennels to help Sugden quarter the pack.

It was Helena who, in matriarchal fashion, eventually took charge. She pointed out that Luc himself was the local magistrate, that apparently there was a perfectly sound cellar below stairs in which Kirby — unanimously referred to as "the felon" — could be incarcerated for the time being, until they wished to question him further, and that, meanwhile, they all needed their rest.

As usual, Helena was indubitably right, yet Amelia hoped that before she and Luc fell asleep…

She didn't actually know what he wanted to tell her. Not absolutely. Yet entering her private sitting room, she was all but floating on her hopes and dreams. Two things, he'd said. In her heart, she knew what one of those things was.

The ultimate victory in her long and tireless campaign beckoned.

Triumph was a powerful drug. It seeped through her veins as she undressed and got ready for bed. She started brushing her hair, impatience escalating; to distract herself — she didn't know how long it would take Luc to organize the cellar and lock Kirby in — she tried to fathom what else — what other secret — Luc might wish to confess to her.

It couldn't be very serious, surely.

But why now? What had Kirby said to precipitate…

Her hand slowed, then lowered. She stared unseeing at her mirror. She and Kirby had discussed only two points. Whether or not Luc loved her enough to pay well for her return.

And whether Luc was, or was not, rich.

As rich as bloody Croesus.

Kirby had said he'd checked. He'd sounded very sure, and he was, after a fashion, clever. "As rich as bloody Croesus"… it wasn't easy to imagine him making such a big mistake…

The months rolled back. In her mind, she revisited all the evidence she'd garnered, all she'd seen with her own eyes, everything that had led her to believe Luc and the Ashfords were very far from rich.

She couldn't have been wrong… could she?

Of course not! He'd all but admitted she was right…

No, he hadn't. Not as such.

Not ever.

The marriage settlements — by his insistence written in percentages so no real amount, no value of his estate had been there to read. She'd assumed the amount had been small.

What if it had been large?

All those repairs — the lumber ordered early, within days of that dawn she'd first spoken of marriage, of her dowry.

What if he hadn't married her for that?

She refocused on her reflection, then gave a shaky laugh. She was imagining things. The events of the night had left her overwrought, small wonder…

What if he hadn't married her for her money?

A tap fell on her door.

Distracted, she called, "Come in."

She looked around as Higgs stuck her head past the door.

"I was just off to bed, my lady, if there's nothing else you need?"

"No, Higgs. And thank you for all your support this evening."

Higgs flushed and bobbed. "My pleasure, ma'am." She started to back out of the room.

"Wait!" Amelia waved. "One moment…" Swiveling on her dressing stool, she faced Higgs. "I have a question. When I first arrived, that first morning we discussed the menus, you mentioned we could now be more extravagant. What did you mean?"

Higgs came in, shut the door, clasped her hands. Frowned. "I don't rightly know as it's my place to speak—

"No, no." Amelia smiled reassuringly. "There's no difficulty — I just wondered why you'd thought that."

"Well, you know about the master's father, about how he died, and… all that?"

Amelia held her breath. "About how Luc's father left the family in dun territory?" When Higgs nodded, she exhaled. "Yes. I know about that." She hadn't been wrong. It was all a silly misunderstanding of Kirby's—

"And then, at last, after all his hard work, the master's ship came in, and he said we didn't need to watch our pennies any longer. His investments had made him and the family rich. That was such good news! And then he was marrying you—"

"Wait." Her mind literally reeled. Investments? Lucifer had asked Luc about investments… "These investments… when did that happen? Can you remember when you heard?"

Higgs frowned, clearly counting through the days. Her eyes narrowed… "Yes — that's it. The week after Miss Amanda's wedding, it was. I remember I had Miss Emily's and Miss Anne's gowns to see to when Cottsloe came and told me. He said the master'd just heard."

She felt so dizzy it was a wonder she remained upright; her emotions swung crazily, from ecstatic happiness to fury. She plastered on a smile, brittle, but enough to reassure Higgs. "Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you, Higgs. That will be all."

Graciously, she nodded; Higgs bobbed and departed, closing the door.

Amelia set down her brush. One point she'd never understood swam into focus. Luc had been drunk that dawn she'd waylaid him; she'd realized at the time it had been a supremely un-Luc-like happening. He hadn't known she would materialize and offer to rescue him financially — he'd been drunk in celebration of the fact he'd already rescued himself from what, she now suspected, had been a much worse situation than even she had guessed.

For a full ten minutes, she stared, unseeing, across the room, while all the pieces of the jigsaw settled into place, and she finally saw the full picture, the real truth of their marriage and what had brought it about, then, determined, she rose and went into their bedroom.

Five minutes later, Luc climbed the main stairs and headed down the corridor to their rooms. As he walked, he loosened his cravat, leaving it hanging about his throat. Outside, dawn was tinting the sky; he assumed Amelia would be asleep, exhausted… he'd have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her. But he would; hopefully she'd be sufficiently curious over his "somethings" to stay in bed long enough for him to confess.

Reaching for the doorknob, he made a silent vow that he wouldn't leave their apartments before he'd told her all.

He opened the door and entered, pushing it shut as he walked in, glancing down at a stubborn cuff button.

Belatedly registering that a candle was still burning… and that Amelia wasn't in bed but standing by the window—

He looked up.

Ducked.

Something crashed on the floor far behind him, but he didn't look back. Amelia had a heavy paperweight clutched in her fist when he grabbed her, wrestled her back against the wall and pinned her there.

Her eyes, narrowed, blazed with blue fire. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Furious, but far from cold, her tone gave him hope. "Tell you what?"

The unwise words were out before he'd thought.

"That you're filthy rich!" Eyes spitting fury, she heaved against him. "That you were even before we wed." She struggled like a demon. "That you weren't marrying me for my money! You let me believe you were, while all the while you—oooof!"

"Stand still!" Locking his hands about each of hers, he forced them back against the wall, one on either side of her head, leaned into her enough to subdue her — to keep her from damaging herself. Or him. He looked down into her furious eyes, her stubborn face. "I've been meaning to tell you." Not like this. "I told you I had things to confess. That was one."

Amelia narrowed her eyes to shards. Pinned him with her gaze. Refused to let her elation show—refused to let him off the hook — the hook he'd caught himself so wonderfully on. "And the other?"

He narrowed his eyes back. "You know." After a moment, he added, "Despite all you said to Kirby, you damn well know."

She lifted her chin. "I might guess, but with you that's plainly not the same as knowing. You'll have to tell me." She held his gaze. "Spell it out. In simple words. Crystal-clear phrases."

His jaw set. Trapped between the wall and him, she'd never been more aware — of him, of herself — of the physical and ephemeral powers that flowed between them. The blatantly sexual and the flagrantly emotional — both had always been there, but only now were they fully revealed. Only now fully acknowledged.

So powerful now that anything else was unthinkable.

He'd come to the same conclusion. His eyes still locked on hers, he drew breath. Spoke, his tone deep, low, intense.

"I let you believe I was marrying you for your dowry — that that was my reason. That was the first confession I wanted to make — that that wasn't true."

He paused. She clung to his gaze, willed him to go on, curled her fingers and when he permitted it, twined them with his.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to her eyes. "My second confession was the real reason I agreed to marry you."

When he said nothing more, his gaze lowering again, she prompted, "What was it — your real reason?" The most important question in the world to her — the one she'd finally realized fifteen minutes ago actually existed to be asked.

He drew breath, lifted his gaze once more to her eyes. "Because I love you — as you very well know." The muscle along his jaw shifted, but he spoke the words clearly, his midnight blue eyes locked on hers. "Because you are and always have been the only woman I ever wanted as my wife. The only woman I wanted to see here, ruling this house — the only woman I ever imagined finding in my nursery, holding my child."

His lashes fell, hiding his eyes. He moved perceptibly — distractingly — closer. "Incidentally, once we've dealt with Kirby, perhaps we should make some announcement—"

"Don't try to distract me." She was well and truly wise to his ways. She tugged her hands and he freed them, simultaneously removing the paperweight. He reached to the side and set it on the dresser; she stretched up and wound her arms about his neck. Touched her lips to his chin. "You'd just got to the best part of your confession. Telling me how much you love me."

Invitingly drawing him nearer, she kissed him, long, lingeringly, knowing, now, just how to incite but keep the flames at bay. He leaned into her, let her have her way, let their fires ignite…

She drew back, but not far. "Tell me again." Her eyes locked on his as he straightened. His hands slid down, around.

His long lashes lifted; he met her gaze. Let her see what burned in his eyes. Then he looked at her lips; his quirked. "I'd rather show you."

She laughed. Let him bend his head and take her lips, take her mouth.

Let him lift her in his arms and carry her to their bed.

Let him love her. Loved him back.

With all her heart, as unreserved as he.

They needed no words — they spoke a language that required no words to communicate, to touch, to give, to open their hearts and share — yet at the last, as the silvery radiance of dawn poured through their windows and bathed their bed, as she lay beneath him, overburdened with sensual bliss, watched him above her, watched the sheer pleasure that washed through him as he savored her and all she gave him, and all he gave her, she reached up, drew his head down, lifted her own to whisper against his lips, "I love you."

His eyes flashed; he took her lips, her mouth hungrily, drank deep as he took her. Released her lips only when she arched, her body rising, clenching, senses flying high over the edge of the world as his words, deep, guttural, reached through the glory, "And I'll always love you. Yesterday, tonight, tomorrow—always."

"You'll never escape."

As if to illustrate that point, Luc wrapped his long fingers in the strand of pearls interrupted by diamonds that he'd draped an hour before around Amelia's neck, and drew her to him for a long kiss.

She obliged most readily, sighed happily when he released her, sank deeper into the comfort of their bed.

It was midafternoon; outside their drawn curtains, the sleepy hum of a hot summer's day held sway. She'd retired after lunch to rest; he'd followed not long after, ostensibly to check on her. In reality to join her, but not to rest.

They were now completely naked, slumped on the rumpled bed, both at peace. One hand lazily ruffling Luc's hair, with the other, Amelia toyed with the fabulous necklace he'd had made for her before they'd wed — and then had to hide until he'd confessed and could give it to her. It matched her "betrothal" ring, and the earrings he'd left on her dressing table yesterday, after Kirby had been taken away and Martin and Amanda, as well as Lucifer and Phyllida, had left.

She smiled. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not running."

He glanced at her. "I had noticed, but I'd thought I'd make the situation quite plain."

His situation was as plain as she would ever need it to be. She couldn't stop her smile deepening, couldn't hold back the happiness that welled and overflowed her heart.

Before any family members had left, they'd announced their impending good fortune, adding their own hope for the future to Amanda and Martin's. Everyone was delighted; Helena had nodded wisely, her eyes filled with something more profound than mere joy.

As for Kirby and poor Fiona, all had been revealed, and all, as far as possible, put right.

Amelia sighed. "Poor Fiona. I still can't believe Edward could be so unfeeling as to exploit her in such a way. He delivered her into Kirby's hands, and he must have known what Kirby was like."

"We'll never understand Edward." Luc stroked her cheek. "He saw and encouraged Fiona's infatuation purely for his own selfish ends. When we banished him, she became a ready tool for revenge. That's all he would have cared about — not her."

Amelia shivered. "I can barely believe he's your brother."

"Nor can I. But he is. Don't hold it against me."

She grinned and hugged him — all of him she could reach. "I don't."

Given Kirby had stashed almost all Fiona had stolen in his lodgings in London, allowing the items to be retrieved and returned to their owners, and given that it was summer and the ton were not gathered in sufficient numbers to make sensationalizing worthwhile, the combined resources of the Ashfords, the Fulbridges, and the Cynsters had been sufficient to smooth the entire episode over. The tale had been cast as merely an endnote to Edward's earlier, already weathered disgrace; the story had quickly acquired the patina of "old news."

Kirby, however, hadn't been allowed to escape.

Any leniency they might have shown was slain when, the morning after his capture, they'd seen the bruising around Anne's throat. Anne had been right; Kirby had intended to kill, as he thought, Fiona.

It had taken careful management on the assembled ladies' parts to keep Kirby alive long enough to be carted away from the Chase, but he had been, and their evidence had been heard by one of the circuit judges; Kirby was now in London awaiting his trial.

Now the house had settled into peaceful harmony, driven by the subtle heartbeat of country house life. The best of the summer stretched before them, and after that, the rest of their lives.

"The Kirkpatricks will be here tomorrow." Luc glanced at her. "Does Emily want us to host a ball?"

"From what I gather, Emily will be quite content if we simply leave her and Kirkpatrick alone." Amelia grinned. "They'll be here for a week — we can talk to his parents when they arrive and see what they think."

Luc accepted her wisdom and lay back, his long body alongside hers, one hand splayed across her stomach.

They both simply lay there, quiet but not sleepy, content, sated — at peace.

Outside, a door opened. A second later, they heard voices. One male, grumbling, the other female, sharp and decisive. Dismissive.

Luc frowned.

Seeing it, Amelia murmured, "I gather Simon is of the firm opinion that it's not safe for Portia to take the dogs out rambling in the woods. Not alone."

After a moment, Luc murmured, "But she'll have the dogs with her."

"I don't think Simon believes dogs are protection enough."

Luc choked on a laugh. "If he thinks to persuade Portia to that end, I wish him luck."

The altercation outside rose to a high enough pitch to confirm his reading of his sister — and Amelia's reading of her brother. The voices faded as Portia strode toward the kennels, no doubt with her nose in the air, and Simon stalked after her, equally without doubt, grimly determined.

They exchanged glances, then relaxed and let contentment lap about them. Savored it, gloried in it.

"There's one thing you never did reveal," Luc murmured.

Amelia hesitated. "What?"

"Why you chose me, out of all the others you might have had, to be the recipient of your outrageous proposal."

She heaved a heavy sigh, and rolled onto her hip, sliding one leg across his thigh, sliding one hand, fingers splayed, across his chest. She located one nipple under the black thatch, started to play as she lifted her face and smiled.

"I chose you because I'd always wanted you — why else?"

He shifted; one hand slid down her back to curve about her bottom. "Ah, I see. Because you lusted after me."

"Precisely." She wriggled higher, brushing her breasts across his chest.

He closed his hand, lifted her, framed her jaw and brought her lips, willing and eager and loving, to his.

A minute slid by, then he released her, met her gaze. "You're a terrible liar."

She looked into his dark eyes, then sighed and snuggled down on him. Lifting the pearls, she let them slide through her fingers. "The truth, then." She felt him glance down, around at her face. "I plotted and planned to marry you."

Glancing up, she met his eyes. "I was always sure that if I could just get you to marry me, we'd have — find—" She gestured.

"This?"

"Yes." She resettled her head on his chest, spread her hand over his heart. "This is what I always wanted."

After a moment, he murmured against her curls. "You were more farsighted than I–I'd never imagined such a state could exist."

She hesitated, then asked, "You don't mind that I stalked you and trapped you?"

"Had I known it was a trap, I would have sprung it anyway. You were what I wanted, and I didn't truly care how I got you."

She grinned, looked up. "So we both succeeded in our plans."

His hand shifted, stroking her bottom. "I think we've both proved there's victory in surrender."

She laughed, then stretched up and kissed him. "Yours, mine — and ours?"

His lips curved; he kissed her back. "The ultimate triumph."