pleasant to endure."

Ryan's expression went dark. "You looked to be enduring just fine last night. In fact your endurance ofmy pillaging was endless.""You're heartless," she whispered, when he slid his finger beneath her chin and tilted her face. "And knowing what I know today, I despise you."

Their eyes met. How could he ever have believed that after last night anything could go back to being as

it was between them? "Certainly, your affection, no matter how candid, has always been refreshingly honest, Rachel."

"You mock me, Ryan."

"You mock yourself," he said, the true tenor of his actions locked in his gaze. "I pay my mistresses well,

but I don't give them international corporations."Rachel itched to slap his face. "You're not giving me anything!""My offer is a good one. I put it in your satchel. Packed in the baggage car with my valise." He stepped away from her. "I suggest that when you get to Dublin you take the time to read it carefully and accept

the terms."

"Thank you." She tightened her arms over her torso. "For making my options patent. This is all so perfectly civil."

"There is no reason why it shouldn't be."

He was gallingly arrogant to think taking her to bed was within the bounds of normal negotiation, even for his ruthless tactics.

Indeed, she had not forgotten the truth about Ryan Donally.

He was a speculator who had made his fortune gambling. He gambled on stocks and commodities. On

trade and commerce, and the buying and selling of people's futures. In his desire to crush those he despised, he'd destroyed human livelihoods. His character had suited his goals and made tycoons of those who had followed him, paupers of those who got in his way.

"I don't want to hurt you, Rachel."

Except he already had.

He reached for the door. "I'll move to another car until we get to Dublin."

Then he would return to London and begin the process of dismantling her entire life piece by piece until Donally & Bailey was as insignificant to him as she. "You know that you and I would never have worked," she called. "I am certain if we were ever to live as husband and wife, we'd strangle each other faster than I could spell blushing bride."

He'd opened the door, tall in the doorframe, his dark coat more than a cloak against the chill. It framed him with a cool detachment that set him apart from everyone else on the train. Especially her.

"Then it's fortunate for both of us we will never live as husband and wife. Take my offer, Rachel." His voice was soft. "It's the only one you're going to receive."

Chapter 12.

"R achel, are you still awake, dear?" Looking like Medusa with rags in her orange hair, Memaw stuck her head into Rachel's room. "I saw the light beneath your door."

"I'm not sleeping." Rachel stopped in the midst of folding a pair of stockings. Trunks lay open over her bedroom floor. Papers on her bed were scattered in disarray. She'd long since released her hair from its braid, and it fell over her shoulders. "But you should be."

"I brought you something hot." Memaw hobbled toward her with a cup in her hand. "You did not eat your supper."

As long as Rachel could remember, whenever she'd been upset, Memaw always brought her a cup of thick hot chocolate.

Her gaze fell on her satchel atop her counterpane, and she turned away. She and Elsie had arrived home late last night from the Dublin train terminal. One of Memaw's grooms had been at the station to pick them up upon their arrival. At least David had wired Memaw to let her know that she would be arriving.

She had not seen Ryan since he'd returned her satchel and changed seats on the train. That morning, she attended church, served punch at the afternoon parish social. Did normal things as if she weren't dying inside. Pieces of Ryan's business proposal lay scattered over the floor like huge white flakes of dandruff. Sometime before tomorrow, she would have to decide how she was going to rescue the rest of her life.

"I wish that you would consider going with me to London," she said.

"Nonsense." Memaw eased her frame into a chair beside Rachel's canopied bed. "I would only be in the way."

"You wouldn't."

"This is my home. It's yours as well, Butterfly."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that." Rachel scraped the hair from her face and immediately regretted the bite of her words. "It's just that I'm not a little girl, Memaw."

"Are ye so afraid of a wee bit of softness, Rachel?"

Softness was a luxury she could ill afford, especially now. But Memaw was familiar enough with Rachel's character to know that no matter how much pressure she'd ever been under, she'd never snapped at Memaw.

"He's thirty-one years old Memaw," Rachel whispered. "He's well educated, respected," she added, for heaven only knew the power he wielded over people's lives.

"He controls an international firm that employs thousands worldwide. He's about to be awarded a knighthood. He's one of the wealthiest men in England. How do I fight that?"

Her gaze fell on the floor. The London Times still lay where she'd tossed it earlier. His acquisition of Valmonts was yesterday's business news. Their paths were clearly marked. Futures staked. Both nonnegotiable with the softer side of life. "Taking apart D&B is merely business to him. Just like everything else since Kathleen's passing. Except for his daughter, Ryan no longer seems to hold an emotional connection to anything."

"Balderdash, girl." Memaw waggled her cane at Rachel. "I should take you over my knee."

Rachel looked at Memaw as if she'd gone mad. "Me?"

"He came to Ireland to see you, didn't he? And what did you do about it? Were ye pleasant? Sweet-natured?"

"He didn't come to see me."

"Ryan Donally could have sent a dozen men in his stead, dear. A man like that doesn't drop his business for a week without a reason."

Rachel rejected any idea except the obvious. He needed her cooperation to help make his next business acquisition go forward with as little trouble as possible. Ryan might be capable of passion, but she did not believe him capable of more, and she wanted nothing to do with him. "Truly, Memaw. Your bedside manner is appalling." She bent and snatched up the broadsheet. "Maybe you should grab your spectacles. His betrothal is even mentioned in the business column."

"Pah! Since when does society have anything over a Bailey? You've the blood of a queen running through your veins."

A famous pirate queen, Rachel laughed, having heard the old story about Grace O'Malley a hundred times. Rachel's strained emotions veered from laughter to near tears. She didn't think her pirate pedigree would count for much in the court of public opinion. But Memaw was proud of that lineage, so Rachel said nothing.

Finally, she set the mug of chocolate on her bedside table, and smoothed the lace doily. Not a thing was out of place. Indeed, she organized her entire life down to the color of stockings she would wear on any given day. Ryan was nothing but chaos in her life.

But Memaw seemed to want to champion him.

Her grandmother and David had grown close since his return to Ireland years ago, but Rachel suspected Ryan had always been her favorite Donally. Probably because deep inside, past the hard-nosed bluster of his boyhood, he'd been so needy for affection. Memaw had never liked Ryan's father. He'd been on a project in Wales when his youngest son had walked across the stage, first in his class in Edinburgh. But her grandparents had been there. So had she. And Kathleen.

Rachel had been completely blind not to recognize that Ryan had once been in love with her.

She thought of her own feelings for him, and attempted to box up her reasons for sleeping with him into a tidy summation attributed to lust. The full realization of what they had done together had not truly set in until he'd left her on the train, and she'd arrived at the station in Dublin, walked outside beneath a perfect sky, filled with perfect stars, and realized how truly imperfect her life had become.

She had not slept with Ryan because of lust.

"Are you going to be working late, dear?" Memaw was standing at the door. Rachel hadn't even heard her rise.

Staring distractedly at the papers she'd laid out earlier on the bed, Rachel set her hands on her waist. "I' ve been working late every night for the past eight years. That's why I have what I have."

"No, Butterfly." Memaw gave her a reproachful smile. "Ye have what you have because you've fought for every inch for your triumph."

"Have you ever been ashamed of me, Memaw?" she asked.

"You can look me in the eye and dare ask me that?" Memaw's tone took her to task. "You rolled over and played dead once before. If ye do it again, ye deserve your fate, girl."

Frowning, Rachel watched Memaw wobble out of the room. Later that night as Rachel blew out the lamp and lay down in the moonlight-scented sheets, she stared at the inside of her canopy. She didn't want to be afraid of Lord Devonshire.

But Memaw had been right. She had run away from her life once before. She had done so to protect herself. She had done so because she was in love with her best friend's husband. She had filled that void with an education few women could only dream of achieving. And had attained independence at a cost greater than anyone could imagine. Now when it came time to fight, Rachel had capitulated to Ryan too easily.

The absolute realization of that fact struck her like a comet crashing down from the stars.

Walking away from her entire life was not an option.

Rolling onto her stomach, Rachel propped her chin on her hand and stared out the window. White lace curtains fluttered in the honeysuckle breeze. She was reminded of Ryan's memory of her first communion.

She'd worn honeysuckle in her hair that day because her grandfather had given her those tiny yellow flowers, and she'd wanted to honor him. Ryan was correct about one thing. She'd been punished severely for her disobedience.

But some things in life were worth the fight.

D&B had grown from the cellar of her father's house thirty years ago. It was as much her legacy as it was Ryan's to grow.

Maybe she only wanted Ryan to realize that Donally could coexist with Bailey. That D&B could coexist with Ore Industries. That it would be possible to go into the future without destroying the past.

Maybe it was time that she finally took a stand.

Women might never get the public vote, but they could own majority shares in international corporations and vote policy with their percentage.

How else did one beat a tycoon industrialist with well-laid plans for his perfect future? But soundly and at his own game.

At least her actions guaranteed that he would not forget her too soon.

"Sir?" A knock sounded on Ryan's sitting-room door.

Snapping the cuff link closed on his sleeve, he glanced up, expecting the hotel porter. A fire warmed the outer chambers where he'd found lodging, awaiting his packet out of Dublin on Monday. There had been nothing leaving the city on Sunday. He'd spent two nights in the best lodging money could buy, and still hadn't managed to get more than a few hours rest. He wasn't in a patient mood.

"The chambermaid let me in, sir," his solicitor hastily explained his presence. "I didn't know if you would still be here."

Ryan stripped his jacket from the wooden rack beside him and slid his arms into the sleeves. "I won't be here much longer." He shrugged into the coat, turning to the glass to check his necktie, then walked out of the dressing room to the bedroom. A half-empty breakfast platter and coffeepot remained on the trundle cart.

Ryan poured himself coffee and, bringing the cup to his lips, regarded Smythe over the rim. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like what you have to say?"

"You were correct," Smythe said. "Miss Bailey appeared at the office this morning."

Despite the fact that he knew she would, Ryan experienced a twinge of foreboding. His solicitors were supposed to meet hers this afternoon. Smythe shouldn't be here.

"She is a spitfire, if I can say so myself, sir. Must be the red hair." He chuckled, and Ryan continued to listen patiently. "Her employees admire her. Frankly, I've never met-"

"Smythe-" Ryan finished the last of the coffee and set down the cup with a clink. A glance at the clock on the wall told him that he needed to leave for the docks. "Is there a point to this?"

"She seemed to know I would be at the office, and gave me this-" Smythe set the envelope on the cart next to Ryan's cup. "She told me to thank you for the generous offer for Donally & Bailey stock. After reading your proposal, she was flattered that you would pay so much above market price, and that any woman...she emphasized woman, sir, would be faint with adulation over such generosity. She considered the offer above reproach and was honored, considering everything the broadsheets had written about you, that you had...a conscience. Her words, sir."

"No doubt she holds me in the highest regard," Ryan said, turning to face the window, his hands folded behind his back.

Smythe heard the veiled dry humor in his voice. "But she said you could take both your offer"-he cleared his throat-"and your person, and go to blazes. Only she didn't use blazes exactly, sir."

"Did she actually swear at you?"

"Not exactly at me, sir. She said that it would snow in hell before she ever sold you one share of D&B stock. She was so pleasant in her discourse, one could forget it was you she was talking about."

His well-honed composure blunted, Ryan stared out the window overlooking one of the numerous canals that snaked through Dublin, fighting the urge to laugh outright. She was a fool.

A knock sounded on the door, and a porter stuck his head inside. He wore a green uniform and round pillbox hat. "Your coach is here, Mr. Donally."

"Take my valise. I'll be there in a moment," Ryan said, then to Smythe, "Continue," he instructed.

"As you ordered, I offered reimbursement for the personal funds that she spent while at her job here."

"Don't tell me that she turned that part of the offer down, too?"

"No, sir. Just the opposite. She politely reminded me that you owed her interest." He set his satchel on the table and withdrew a folder. "Her accounting was more precise than mine on certain matters, considering we have not yet had time to go over every expenditure she made the last few years."

Ryan took the folder and flipped through the pages, impressed by Rachel's thoroughness in the short time since her return from Glenealy. No doubt, the arithmetic was correct. Rachel had the ability to add multiple columns of numbers as well as solve equations in her head that would leave most men gasping in reverence. Calculating interest would be elementary to her in comparison.