Worth Any Price

CHAPTER 4

The English celebration of May Day varied from village to village. It had been derived from an ancient Roman festival honoring the goddess of springtime, and over time each region had added its own customs in addition to the standard Maypole dance and a-maying songs. Nick had vague childhood memories of the May celebrations in Worcestershire, especially the man dressed as "Jack-in-the Green," who cavorted through the village completely covered in fresh greenery. As a small child, Nick had been terrified by the sight of the plant-festooned man and had hidden behind his older sister Sophia's skirts until he had gone away.

It had been a long time since Nick had seen a May Day celebration of any kind. Now, from his adult perspective, the sexual connotations of the holiday were more than obvious...villagers dancing with the phallic staffs, the May King and Queen going from door to door and sprinkling "wild water" on the household inhabitants...the streets adorned with hoop-shaped garlands featuring pairs of marigold balls hanging in the centers.

Nick stood on a hill near the manor house with a crowd of other guests, watching the riotous dancing in the center of the village. Hundreds of lamps and blazing torches lit the streets with a golden glow. A cacophony of laughter, music, and singing filled the air as women took their turns at the towering Maypole. Blasts from hunting horns frequently punctuated the din. Young men danced with ropes woven of tail hair from cattle, which would later be dragged through the night dew to ensure a good milk supply for the next year.

"I expect good hunting tonight," came a masculine voice from nearby. The speaker was Viscount Stepney, a brawny young man with a well-known penchant for skirt-chasing. His companions, the lords Woodsome and Kendal, broke into lusty laughter. Seeing Nick's questioning gaze, Stepney explained with a chortle. "The village girls will go a-maying until morning. Catch one of them in the woods, and she'll let you do anything you want. Even the married ones do it-they're allowed to remove their wedding rings for this one night."

"And their husbands don't object?" Nick asked.

That question made the lords laugh in unison. "Why no," Stepney explained, "they are too busy chasing fresh young tails themselves to give a damn about what their wives are doing. A pleasant holiday, is it not?"

Nick smiled slightly, making no reply. Clearly Stepney and his companions considered it great sport to spend ten minutes coupling with peasant girls in the woods. "A poke and a wiggle," as Gemma Bradshaw had dryly described the lovemaking style of most of the men who frequented her establishment. They had no conception of real sexuality, no requirement of a woman save that she spread her legs. Obviously a quick mating between strangers afforded a certain kind of release. But that was too simple, and too easy, to satisfy Nick. Thanks to Gemma's tutoring, he had developed a complex palate.

The image of Charlotte's face, her dark eyes and pointed chin and sweet mouth, hovered at the back of his mind. Let Stepney and his friends go in search of a quick tail-tickle. Nick had far more interesting prospects.

"Come, Sydney," the viscount urged. "The village girls will become available immediately after the betrothed of May is chosen." Seeing Nick's unfamiliarity with the phrase, he explained, "A lad of marriageable age lies on the green and pretends to sleep. The girls who are willing to marry him race to be the first to awaken him. The first one to kiss him will be able to claim him as her betrothed." He smiled lecherously and rubbed his hands. "And the other girls-all in need of consolation-scatter into the forest, waiting to be caught by enterprising fellows such as myself. You should have seen the one I captured last year-black hair and red lips-ah, what a fine little mount she was. Come, Sydney-if you're fleet-footed, you'll catch one for yourself."

Nick was about to refuse when his gaze was caught by a new cluster of girls grasping the Maypole ribbons. One of them seized his full attention. Like the others, she wore a white peasant dress, her hair covered by a red cloth. At this distance her features were difficult to discern, but Nick recognized her at once. A rueful smile curved his lips as he recalled Charlotte's saying that she intended to stay in her room with a book that night. No doubt the Westcliffs would disapprove of her attending the village festival, and so she had chosen to go in disguise. Fascination and desire swirled inside him as his gaze tracked Charlotte's slim figure. She wound in and out of the Maypole circle, her hands flung exuberantly high over her head.

"I believe I will join you," Nick murmured, accompanying the eager rakes down the hill.

Laughing recklessly, Lottie joined the mass of maidens who waited in tense readiness to race to the village green. From what she had been able to deduce, the betrothed of May was an exceptional catch this year-the butcher's son, a handsome blond lad with blue eyes and a fine physique, and a guarantee of inheriting a profitable family business. Of course Lottie had no intention of trying to reach him. However, it was fun to join in the game, and she was entertained by the excitement of the girls around her. The signal was given, and Lottie was carried along with the village girls in a frantic rush. The wildness and noise was such a contrast to her quiet existence at Stony Cross Park that she felt a jolt of exhilaration. She had spent so many years learning proper comportment at Maidstone's, and struggling to remain inconspicuous as a companion to Lady Westcliff, that she couldn't remember the last time she had raised her voice. Caught up in the moment, she howled with laughter and screamed as loudly as the determined brides-to-be around her as the group swarmed over the green. From somewhere ahead, a jubilant cry rang over the crowd. The victor, a robust red-haired girl, clambered onto her new fiance's broad shoulders, exultantly waving a bouquet of wildflowers. "I did it!" she crowed. "I got 'im, 'e's mine!"

Cheering, the villagers surrounded the newly betrothed couple, while disappointed maidens scattered and ran toward the forest. A host of eager men followed, ready to begin the night's a-maying.

Smiling, Lottie followed at a relaxed pace, having no wish to be the focus of some overexcited lad's amorous attention. In a few minutes, the revelers would pair off, and she would sneak back to Stony Cross Park. Stopping at the edge of the forest, she leaned against a heavy-crowned sycamore and sighed in satisfaction. Her knees were pleasantly weak from dancing and wine. This was the first year she had actually taken part in May Day, rather than simply watched, and it had been even more enjoyable than she had expected. A tune played insistently in her head, and she sang to herself in a whisper, her eyes closed as she rested back against the smooth, mottled bark.

Go no more a-rushing, maids in May, go no more a-rushing, maids, I pray, go no more a-rushing, or you'll fall a-blushing...

Although all was still and quiet around her, some instinct warned she was no longer alone. Pausing, Lottie lifted her lashes and recoiled as she saw a dark shape right beside her. "Good Lord!" She stumbled backward, and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her.

Sputtering in surprise, Lottie flailed at her captor in a bid for freedom.

"Easy," came a masculine voice, rich with laughter. "Easy. It's me."

She gasped and went still, staring up at his dark face. "Lord S-Sydney?"

"Yes."

"You nearly frightened me to death!"

"Sorry." He grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "I didn't want to interrupt you."

Lottie laughed and pushed at him, mortified to be caught singing to herself like some half-wit. "How did you find me?"

"It seems to be a talent of mine." Sydney released her and leaned one shoulder against the sycamore, his careless smile at variance with his alert gaze.

Lottie felt for her kerchief, which had been dislodged in the flurry of activity. "I covered my hair-I can't think how you recognized me."

"I know the way you move."

She did not reply, experiencing a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty. There was a compliment implicit in the statement. But he was a stranger...he had not known her long enough, nor well enough, to distinguish something so intrinsic and subtle.

"Did you enjoy the May festivities, my lord?" she asked as she tied the kerchief back into place.

"I enjoyed watching you."

Her eyes narrowed in pretend-menace. "Do you intend to tell anyone that you saw me here?"

Lord Sydney leaned closer, as if to impart some highly confidential news. "Not if my life depended on it."

Smiling, Lottie leaned her shoulder against the tree trunk, mirroring his posture. "Are you going a-maying, like the other young men?"

"That depends." A flirtatious gleam entered his eyes. "Are you going to run through the forest in hopes of being captured?"

"Decidedly not."

"Then allow me to escort you back to the house. I shouldn't like for you to be waylaid by some impassioned village youth."

"Oh, I would outrun any of them," Lottie said confidently. "I know these woods quite well, and I am small enough to dart easily among the trees. No one could catch me."

"I could."

"A man as large as you? I think not. In these woods, with all the underbrush, you would be as noisy as a rampaging elephant."

His body tensed subtly, his appreciation of the impudent challenge almost palpable. "You might be surprised-" he began, and paused as he was distracted by a feminine squeal from somewhere to the left of them, as a village girl was "caught" by a randy young man. A moment of silence, and then a loud moan of pleasure filtered through the trees.

When Sydney turned back to Lottie, she was gone.

Laughing inwardly, she slipped through the woods like a wraith, raising her skirts to her knees to keep from being snagged by branches. She maneuvered easily through the maze of trunks and flexible saplings, until finally all was quiet and there was no sign of anyone behind her. Pausing for breath, Lottie glanced over her shoulder. No movement, nothing except for the distant sounds of May Day carousing.

Either Lord Sydney had decided not to give chase, or he had lost her in mid-pursuit. A triumphant smile curved her lips-she had proved her point. Turning, she continued toward Stony Cross Park-and shrieked in alarm as she walked right into a hard male body.

She was caught against a deep chest, a pair of powerful arms subduing her easily. It was Lord Sydney, his low laugh tickling her ear. Stunned, she leaned against him, requiring temporary support as she strove to recover her equilibrium.

"How did you get in front of me?" she asked breathlessly.

"Flank speed." His gentle fingers sought to restore her kerchief, but it slid from her fine, slippery hair, revealing the neat braided coil at her nape. He let the cloth drop to the ground. A smile wove through his voice. "You can't escape me, you know."

The teasing words seemed to contain a hint of warning.

Lottie stood in the shelter of his body, absorbing his warmth, his spicy masculine scent. How had she come to be alone in the darkness with him? She did not believe in happenstance. This could only be a result of her own relentless attraction to him...an attraction that seemed to be returned in full measure. As they both fell silent, Lottie became aware of a nearby couple, their entwined figures barely visible through the trees. The muffled sounds of sexual revelry brought a rush of heat to Lottie's face.

"Take me back to the house, please," she said.

Lord Sydney released her. Lottie stepped away, almost bumping against the large tree behind her. Following, he pressed her against the wide trunk, using his arms to protect her from the rough bark. Her breath caught sharply. Her hands slid to his upper arms, where the brutal swell of muscle was manifest through his coat. She knew that he was going to kiss her, that he wanted her. And heaven help her, she wanted him too.

He stroked the curve of her cheek with a single fingertip, so carefully, as if she were a wild creature that would bolt at the slightest sign of haste. Her breath quickened as he touched her chin and tilted her head back in an angle of surrender.

His gentle mouth descended to hers, molding, coaxing, until she parted her lips with a gasp of pleasure. The tip of his tongue stroked the edge of her teeth, ventured farther, brushed the inside of her cheek in a burning, delicate exploration. The kiss made her light-headed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck in a desperate bid for balance. He let her have more of his weight, pinning her securely between his body and the unyielding oak at her back. She twisted and pulled at him, until he made a soothing noise and ran his hands down her back. The slow caress only sharpened her need, making her arch against him in a blind, instinctive search. She felt something against the fabric of her rough-woven skirt...the intimate bulge of his sex.

The rigid length of him matched perfectly in the notch between her thighs. His hardness pressed into her softness, his mouth possessed hers with wicked skill, while his arms surrounded her. Sliding her hands into his hair, she curved her fingers around his scalp, beneath the thick locks that gleamed like silk in the fragmented moonlight. A harsh breath escaped him, and his lips slid along her throat. Even in her innocence, she sensed the wealth of experience in his careful touch, the hunger he kept so tightly shackled.

Her peasant blouse had slipped over one shoulder, revealing the white gleam of her skin. His fingers stole to the ribbon of her gathered neckline and tugged deftly, causing the crumpled linen to slide downward. Gradually his hand eased beneath her chemise. Her cool, soft nipple tightened against the calloused pads of his fingers, the peak turning harder and warmer with each circling stroke.

Lottie pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She had to stop him now, before her will was completely demolished. "No. Please stop. I'm sorry."

His hand slid from her blouse, and he touched her damp lips with his fingers. "Have I frightened you?" he whispered.

Lottie shook her head, somehow resisting the urge to curl into his embrace like a sun-warmed cat. "No...I've frightened myself."

For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. "Then I'll stop," he said. "Come-I'll take you to the house."

He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively...swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly.

"Charlotte..."

"Lottie," she told him breathlessly.

He pressed his lips to her temple and cuddled her against his powerful body as if she were infinitely fragile. "I never thought I would find someone like you," he whispered. "I've looked for you so long...needed you..."

Lottie shivered and dropped her head to his shoulder. "This isn't real," she said faintly.

His lips touched her neck, finding a place that made her arch involuntarily. "What's real, then?"

She gestured to the yew hedge that bordered the estate garden. "Everything back there."

His arms tightened, and he spoke in a muffled voice. "Let me come to your room. Just for a little while."

Lottie responded with a trembling laugh, knowing exactly what would happen if she allowed that. "Absolutely not."

Soft, hot kisses drifted over her skin. "You're safe with me. I would never ask for more than you were willing to give."

Lottie closed her eyes, her head spinning. "The problem is," she said ruefully, "I am willing to give you entirely too much."

She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh, yes." Pulling away from him, Lottie held her hands to her hot face and sighed unsteadily. "We must stop this. I don't trust myself with you."

"You shouldn't," he agreed hoarsely.

The sounds of their breathing mingled in the darkness. He was so warm and strong that Lottie could barely keep from flinging herself at him. Instead she forced herself to think rationally. Lord Sydney would be gone soon, and the memory of this night would fade in time. She was not so weak-willed, or foolish, that she could be so easily seduced.

"At least let me walk with you to the house," Lord Sydney urged. "If we are seen together, you can explain it as a chance meeting."

Lottie hesitated, then nodded. "And we'll part company at the back terrace?"

"Yes." Offering her his arm, Lord Sydney accompanied her to the double-sided stone staircase at the back of the manor. They were both silent as they ascended to the terrace that overlooked the main gardens. Abundant light from the great hall shone through the glittering multipaned windows and French doors. The terrace, often the location for guests to smoke and drink port, was unoccupied, as nearly everyone was either in the village or playing cards and billiards inside.

A lone figure relaxed in a chair by the railing. He drew lazily on a cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that drifted in the air like a vanishing wraith. The scent of expensive tobacco tickled Lottie's nostrils as she reached the top step.

Her stomach flipped uneasily as she realized who the man was.

"Lord Westcliff," she murmured, curtsying automatically. Uneasily she wondered what he would make of the fact that she was accompanied by Lord Sydney.

The earl remained seated as he surveyed the two of them. The refracted light from the windows gleamed on his coal black hair and cast angular shadows across his blunt, strong features. "Miss Miller," he said in his gravelly voice, and nodded coolly to her companion. "Sydney. What convenient timing. There is a matter that I wish to take up with you."

Certain that her employer was displeased with her, Lottie lowered her gaze to the stone flagging of the terrace. "My lord, forgive me. I went to watch the festival in the village, and-"

"You did more than watch, it appears," Lord Westcliff observed mildly, his keen gaze sweeping over her rustic attire.

"Yes, I took part in the Maypole dance. And Lord Sydney offered to escort me home-"

"Of course he did," the earl said sardonically, taking another pull on his cigar. Blue-gray smoke whirled and eddied upward. "There is no need to look so distressed, Miss Miller. As far as I am concerned, you are not prohibited from seeking entertainment in the village-although it would doubtless be wise not to mention such activities to the dowager countess." He gestured with his cigar. "You may go now, while I discuss a few things with Lord Sydney."

Lottie nodded in cautious relief. "Yes, sir." As she began to depart, she was astonished to feel Lord Sydney's light, restraining hand on her arm.

"Wait."

Lottie froze in utter confusion, her face flooding with color. She could not believe that he had dared to touch her in front of the earl. "My lord," she murmured in protest.

Sydney did not return her glance; his gaze was fixed intently on the earl's harsh features. "Before Miss Miller takes her leave, you had better tell me what this is about."

"This is about your so-called family," Lord Westcliff said softly. "And your so-called past." The quiet words rang with condemnation. Lottie realized from the earl's expression that something was very wrong. If any warmth had lingered from the enchanted moments in the forest, it vanished abruptly.

Bewildered, she stared at Lord Sydney. His face had changed somehow, no longer quite so handsome, but suddenly hard and cold. To behold him now, one would believe that this man was capable of anything. Suddenly, she could not believe that a few minutes ago she had kissed that stern mouth, that his hands had caressed her intimately. When he spoke, even his voice sounded different, his accent a bit coarser. The aristocratic veneer had been stripped away, revealing the stony layers beneath. "I would prefer to discuss this in a more private setting," he said to the earl.

Westcliff inclined his head with icy courtesy. "There is a study in the family wing. Will that serve?"

"Yes." Sydney paused deliberately before adding, "Miss Miller will accompany us."

Lottie stared at him blankly. His request made no sense. Suddenly she felt cold all over, and a shiver chased down her spine. "Why?" she asked through dry lips.

"She has nothing to do with this," Lord Westcliff said curtly, rising from his chair.

Lord Sydney's face was dark and still. "She has everything to do with it."

Lottie felt herself turn white. The entire surface of her body seemed to prickle and burn, as if she had fallen into a frozen pond. She found it difficult to speak or move as a paralyzing suspicion crept over her.

The earl dropped his cigar to the terrace and crushed it with his foot. A touch of uncharacteristic impatience edged his tone. "Miss Miller, will you be so kind as to join us? It seems that we have a small mystery to solve."

Nodding in a puppetlike fashion, Lottie followed the earl into the house, while her instincts screamed for her to flee. She had little choice but to play the scene out, however. Forcing herself to behave calmly, she went with the two men to the private study, its rosewood paneling glowing ruddily in the lamplight. The room was hard and uncompromising, with minimal upholstery and sharp angles, and no ornamentation save for a pristine row of stained glass windows.

As Lord Westcliff closed the door, Lottie took care to keep as great a distance between herself and Sydney as possible. A sense of foreboding nearly made her ill. She could not bring herself to look directly at Lord Sydney, but she was intensely aware of him.

Lord Westcliff spoke. "Will you have a seat, Miss Miller?"

Lottie shook her head dumbly, afraid that if she moved at all, she might collapse.

"Very well." The earl's attention moved to Lord Sydney. "Let us begin with the information I received today. Immediately upon your arrival at Stony Cross Park, I undertook to make certain inquiries about you. I suspected that you were not being entirely truthful in some regard, although I could not quite put my finger on what it was."

Lord Sydney appeared relaxed but watchful, his blue eyes hard as he returned the earl's stare. "And the results of your inquiries, my lord?"

"There is no Viscount Sydney," Westcliff said bluntly, ignoring Lottie's gasp as he continued. "The family line ended approximately twenty years ago, when the real Lord Sydney diedsine prole mascula superstite -without surviving male children to establish a legitimate claim to the title. Which begs the question...who the hell are you? And what is your purpose here?"

"I'm Nick Gentry."

Although Lottie had never heard the name, Lord Westcliff seemed to recognize it. "I see," he said softly. "That explains Sir Ross's involvement. You're about some business for Bow Street, then."

Lottie gasped in astonishment as she realized that the stranger was a Bow Street runner. She had heard of the small, elite force of officers who did everything from solving murder cases to serving as bodyguards for royalty. They were known for their ruthless efficiency and courage, and had even achieved a celebrated status in higher social circles. No wonder this man had seemed so different from the other guests here."I hunt," he had told her, conveniently omitting the fact that his prey was the two-legged variety.

"Not always," Gentry said in response to Westcliff's question. "Sometimes I accept private commissions." His gaze moved to Lottie's tense face. "Two months ago I was hired by Lord Radnor to find his runaway fiancee, Charlotte Howard, who has been missing for two years."

Lottie was utterly still, while cruel pain burst inside her chest and leaked all through her. Her mouth shook with violent denial, but no words would come out. Instead she heard a high-pitched, incoherent cry, only later realizing it had been her own. She was not aware of moving, but suddenly she was across the room, clawing at Gentry's dark face, while rage and terror swooped around her like attacking buzzards.

A savage curse rang in her ears, and her wrists were snatched in crushing vises, but she did not, could not, stop struggling. Sweat and tears poured down her face, and she breathed in sobbing screams, fighting for her life, for the freedom that was being ripped away from her. Somewhere in her mind she knew that she was acting like a madwoman, that this would do her no good, but she could not seem to stop herself.

"Stop it, Lottie," Gentry snarled, giving her a hard shake. "Calm yourself...for God's sake-"

"I won't go back!" she shrieked, panting furiously. "I'll kill you first, oh God, I hate you,hate you -"

"Lottie." The cold voice of sanity cut neatly through her writhing torment. It was Lord Westcliff's voice. One of his powerful arms slid around her from behind, and he hauled her away from Gentry. She reared back against him like a terrified animal. "That's enough," Westcliff said against her ear, his arm tightening into a steely band. "He won't take you, Lottie. I swear it. You know that I always keep my word. Now take a deep breath. Another."

Somehow the earl's stern, quiet voice reached her as nothing else could have, and she found herself obeying. He guided her to a chair and forced her to sit. Lowering to his haunches, he pinned her with a steady, black gaze. "Stay still. And keep breathing."

Lottie nodded jerkily, her face still streaming. "Don't let him come near me," she whispered.

Standing, Westcliff shot the Bow Street runner a glance of obsidian ice. "Keep your distance, Gentry. I don't give a damn about who has paid you to do what. You're on my estate, and you'll do nothing without my consent."

"You have no legal claim on her," Gentry said softly. "You can't keep her here."

Westcliff responded with an arrogant snort. Going to the sideboard, he poured a small quantity of amber liquid into a glass. Bringing the liquor to Lottie, he forced her trembling fingers around the vessel. "Drink this," he said curtly.

"I don't-" she began, but he interrupted in a tone of absolute authority.

"Now. Every drop."

Grimacing, she downed the liquid in a few gulps and coughed as her lungs and throat were filled with velvet fire. Her head swam, and she regarded the earl with watering eyes. He extracted a handkerchief from the inside of his coat and gave it to her. The linen was warm from the heat of his body. Blotting her face with it, she sighed shakily. "Thank you," she said hoarsely. She kept her gaze fastened on him, unable to look at Gentry. She had never dreamed that such devastation was possible...that her ruin had come in the form of a handsome man with cruel eyes and raffish charm...the first man she had ever kissed. The pain of betrayal, the crushing humiliation of it, was too great to bear.

"Now," Westcliff said evenly, taking a chair beside Lottie's, "your reaction to Mr. Gentry's revelation would seem to confirm that you are indeed Charlotte Howard." He waited for her brief nod before continuing. "It is also true that you are betrothed to Lord Radnor?"

Lottie was reassured by the earl's powerful presence, knowing that he was the only thing that kept her safe from the predator who lurked nearby. Staring into Westcliff's blunt features, she struggled for the right words to make him understand her situation. As the earl saw her agitation, he surprised her by reaching out and taking her hand in his square one. His grip, so strong and secure, seemed to drive away the incapacitating fear. Lottie was amazed by his kindness. He had never shown her this kind of consideration...had never seemed to take much notice of her, actually.

"It was never my choice," she told him. "It was arranged when I was a child. My parents promised Lord Radnor my hand in return for his financial patronage. I have tried very hard to accept the situation, but Radnor is not rational-not sane-in my opinion. He has made no secret of his plans-he regards me as some kind of animal to be trained to his satisfaction. Suffice it to say that I would be better off dead. You must believe me, I would never have resorted to this otherwise-"

"I believe you." Still retaining possession of her hand, Westcliff glanced at Nick Gentry. "Having been acquainted with Miss Miller for quite some time, I can only assume that her objections to marrying Radnor are valid."

"They are," came the runner's flat response. He lounged near the fireplace with deceptive laziness, resting an arm on the marble mantel. Flames cast tongues of red light over his dark face. "Radnor is a swine. But that is beside the point. Her parents have agreed to the match. Money-a great deal of it-has changed hands. And if I don't retrieve her, Radnor will send a dozen more like me to do the job."

"They won't find me," Lottie said, finally managing to meet his gaze. "I'll go abroad. I'll disappear-"

"You little fool," Gentry interrupted in a low voice. "Do you plan to spend the rest of your life running? He'll send another man after you, and another. You'll never have a moment's peace. You can't go fast enough, or far enough-"

"That's enough," Westcliff said curtly, feeling the shiver that ran through Lottie's body. "No, Lottie will not go abroad, nor will she continue to run from Lord Radnor. We will find a way to resolve the matter so that she may lead a normal life."

"Oh?" One of Gentry's dark brows lifted in a mocking arch. "This should be interesting. What do you propose to do, Westcliff?"

The earl was silent as he considered the matter.

As Lottie continued to stare at Nick Gentry, she tried to think past the welter of emotions. She would find some way out. She would be damned if she would be taken to Radnor like a lamb to the slaughter. Her thoughts must have been obvious, for Gentry's gaze was suddenly touched with flinty admiration as he stared at her. "As I see it, you have only two options," he said softly.

Her voice shook only a little as she replied. "What are they?"

"With the right inducement, I may be persuaded to let you go, in which case you will continue to hide from Radnor until you're caught again. Or...you can remove yourself from his reach permanently."

"What do you mean?"

Lord Westcliff intervened in the taut silence. "He means marriage. Once you are married and legally under another man's protection, Radnor will cease his pursuit."

Lottie's gaze dropped to the strong hand covering hers. "But that is impossible. I don't know any men who would be willing..." She stopped, feeling ill and bitter.

"Itis possible," the earl countered calmly.

As Lottie stared at Westcliff with wondering eyes, Nick Gentry's quiet jeer cut through the air. "Planning to make her your countess, my lord?"

The earl's face was expressionless. "If necessary."

Stunned, Lottie clung to his hand tightly before withdrawing from him. It was inconceivable that Westcliff would be willing to make such a sacrifice. Perhaps she could reconcile herself to the prospect of marrying without love. After all, anything was preferable to becoming Lady Radnor. However, the earl was a good, honorable man, and she would not take advantage of him that way.

"You are remarkably kind, my lord," she told him. "But I would never marry you, as you deserve far better than a marriage of convenience. That is too great a sacrifice for you to make."

"It would hardly be a sacrifice," he replied dryly. "And it is a logical solution to your dilemma."

Lottie shook her head, her fine brows knitting as a new thought occurred to her. "There is a third option."

"What is it?"

A great icy calmness settled over Lottie, and suddenly she felt removed from the scene, as if she were an impartial onlooker rather than a participant. "I would rather not say just yet. If you would not mind, my lord, I would like to have a few minutes alone with Mr. Gentry."