"I'm starving to death, Moira," he grumbled weakly, looking pale and helpless among the sheets and comforter that Moira pulled to his chest. "Have ye no ken what that is like? I need sustenance. A fat juicy brisket-"

"Dr. Blanchard said you were to have nothing heavier on your stomach than mash for another week," Moira said, her thick black hair framing her face and blue eyes.

"Aye, what does he know? By the looks of him, he's never been hungry in his life." He turned his hopeful gaze on Rachel. "Do you by chance have anything to drink, colleen? Something real?"

Rachel moved to his bedside table and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher. "As real as water." She offered the glass.

Johnny peered up into her drawn face as he reluctantly accepted the glass. "How are you holding up, colleen? You haven't been looking so well yourself lately."

A quick gust of wind stirred the wind chimes outside the open window, and fluttered Rachel's hair. "That bridge would have become operational in October," she said quietly, still not reconciled to what Devonshire might have done to all of them.

"It looks like your appearance in Ryan's life was divine providence, colleen."

"How could you say that?"

"He wouldn't have returned to Ireland. I wouldn't have decided to go to Scotland. The merger would have proceeded as planned."

Everything happens for a reason, Memaw had told her when she'd returned from London, in her Confucianist wisdom and love of proverbs. A chill went over her. "Unfortunately, I see nothing positive in what happened to you," she said. "And Ryan is blaming himself for everything."

"As are you, colleen."

"He returned to London this morning," Christopher said, from his place at the end of the bed.

A knock sounded, and a servant entered, followed by the physician and an audible groan from Johnny, a cue for everyone to vacate the premises. Outside Johnny's chambers, in the sitting room, children's voices drew Rachel to the window. She pulled aside the heavy curtain, hoping just once that she would look outside and see Mary Elizabeth playing.

Christopher moved behind her. She saw him in the glass. "Are you sure that you know what you are doing, Rachel?" he asked her, his penetrating blue eyes observing the strain on her face.

She dropped the edge of the curtain and turned, annoyed that he would be standing behind her. He had insisted on going with her everywhere all week, she was sure at Ryan's behest. If he wasn't available, Lord Ravenspur had filled in as her bodyguard until she felt imprisoned by their protectiveness. Imprisoned by her desire for revenge. By her past. Most of all, imprisoned by her need for Ryan.

"I need to go home," she said, having made up her mind this morning to return to the green hills of Ireland.

She had her baby and her health to think about. The physician had warned her yesterday that she needed bed rest. Stewart had everything in hand at D&B and, for the first time in her life, she was thinking about someone other than herself. "Don't think about telling me I can't go, either. I've made up my mind."

"Don't you think you should talk to Ryan?"

"Chris," Lord Ravenspur said from behind them, handing Christopher a note as he turned. "This just arrived."

Christopher read the missive, then raised his eyes to hers. "Ryan's visit to the foundry must have yielded results. Devonshire has agreed not to pursue charges against Johnny."

"The man is beyond arrogant. It's insane to think he ever could or would file charges after everything he has done."

"Ryan would not have allowed you to be out on public display in any courtroom, Rachel," Christopher said. "As of now, it is Johnny's word against his. Even so, Devonshire would only say you invited him into your office."

Rachel utterly despised the defeat she felt at Devonshire's hands.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Ravenspur said flatly, ending the conversation with ducal flair. "For whatever reason, Devonshire will not file charges. It is over."

Rachel took the note. "In exchange for what?"

"You can't go inside, Miss Bailey."

Ryan's secretary stood like a granite sentinel in front of his office. Clearly strengthened from her extended holiday, she looked prepared to protect the Ore Industries' bastion from incursion.

Rachel looked around Mrs. Stone. The door to Ryan's office was shut-so symbolically parallel to their current relationship that she felt her throat tighten. She could hear his raised voice through the closed transom. "It is not going well for him?" she asked.

"Today alone, Mr. Donally has been in meetings with auditors, broadsheet journalists, board members, and Scotland Yard," Mrs. Stone replied in monotone. "This meeting is tame in comparison to the others. But then a roomful of accountants can have that calming affect on a person."

Mrs. Stone returned to her desk, and Rachel wondered if she had just made a joke.

A gray light lay against the shadows in the room. Tightening her hands around the doll Mary Elizabeth had left at Lord Ravenspur's house, she sat on one of the plush chairs in the dreary anteroom, determined to see her husband. As difficult as it had been to sneak out from beneath the guard of the Donally watchdogs, she found it even more difficult to see her husband today. She knew he was avoiding her and would probably continue to avoid her. He had truly convinced himself that he could only protect her by staying away.

The meeting lasted exactly an hour. Rachel looked up as five men filtered out of Ryan's office, their expressions somber in the face of whatever had occurred inside.

She waited until she was alone before reaching for her satchel and standing. Carrying the doll, she walked to the office. Her petticoat swished with her gait. She edged out her hand and opened the door wider. Ryan was sitting at his desk working over some papers. He looked up. Their eyes met and held.

"Good afternoon." She smiled tentatively.

He stood as she approached.

He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "What are you doing here?"

"Are you going to avoid Johnny and me forever?" she asked. "Or will you stay away and pile more guilt on top of everything else you're carrying on your shoulders?"

"I have no desire to fight with you, Rachel. And I'm really busy at the moment."

She looked down at the doll in her hands, because that was where his gaze had strayed. She had no desire to fight with him either. Not when the world was falling in on him. "Marsha is Mary Elizabeth's favorite doll." She offered the doll to him. A glass eye was missing, and she had taken on a cyclopic demeanor since she'd been buried in the mud twice. "I thought about putting a patch over her face and making her into a pirate."

"The doll is yours." He touched Marsha's worn, burnished curls, the act surprisingly gentle. Ryan had known that Marsha was hers. How?

"Where did Mary Elizabeth find her?" he asked.

"In a trunk in that locked room off the attic."

"The attic? At the country house?" His gaze lifted.

"Why do you keep that room locked?" she asked.

He set the doll on the desk. "Do you think we can talk about this another time?"

"You can't put your daughter in your big white castle and hide her from death or from the hurts in life, Ryan, any more than you are responsible for hurting me or Johnny. Any more than you can sell off your interest in Ore Industries to appease Devonshire or walk away from everyone who loves you because of some guilt you carry over your past behavior. Johnny doesn't expect that, and neither do I."

"Jaysus, are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"

"You need to be provoked."

"Not from you."

"Especially from me. If you act on something, then you better be acting for the right reasons."

"He's dropping charges."

"In exchange for what?"

"It's complicated, Rachel."

"Then ask yourself what is really important to you."

"I don't bloody know the answer to that anymore," he shouted at her.

Rachel raised her chin, for Ryan didn't intimidate her, and she could give every bit as good as she got from him. But it wasn't the time to take a stand. He shook his head. Inhaling a frustrated breath, Ryan walked to the window that looked out on London like a huge glass eye. He set his hands on his hip. For a long time, he didn't speak.

"When I was a little boy I used to live in Da's old office warehouse," he said, his back to her. "You probably don't remember the place. I used to watch him work and knew I wanted to be like him. He was able to create with his hands...I thought no one in the entire world could be as smart. But people treated him like filth. Not once did he ever put up a fight. I watched, hating the injustice of his treatment. Later, I swore I would be more than just Irish or Catholic. More than a third-class citizen. I swore that I would be one of those other people one day..." He paused. "I only wish Da could have seen what the back room in that old warehouse has become today." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he quirked his mouth and looked over his shoulder at her. "Funny thing is, he probably wouldn't even bloody care."

Rachel moved nearer to his side. "He was an inventor as much as he was anything else. He lived in his own world, Ryan."

"He never noticed one accomplishment in my life," Ryan said. "Everything went to Christopher. The company, the accolades...your heart. I still can't even look at my family without feeling as if I have to prove myself. I don't even know what it's like to walk a line and not care if I fall off. Now, I'm no longer sure if I even want to get back on that line."

"You aren't walking that line alone, Ryan." Reaching into her satchel, Rachel withdrew a small bamboo case. She waited for him to turn before putting it in his hands. "This represents more than a token of my affection toward you. I want you to have it because you mean more to me than a hundred of these."

He opened the box to reveal her own professional set of drafting tools.

They weren't a gift or an award. Women didn't walk across a stage and accept diplomas, so she had never been able to celebrate her accomplishment except by this. "I bought them myself," she said with a smile, when his gaze lifted to touch hers-as if he knew what this meant to her. "I made choices in my life that could I do over again...I would do the same. You and I weren't ready to fall in love and live a life together ten years ago. We were too selfish and never would have appreciated what we had as a couple. You have a beautiful daughter. I would never wish that anything could have been different for that alone."

"Was the price you paid worth what it bought you then, Rachel?"

There was no animosity in the question, for he'd suddenly found himself facing the same stark questions in his own life that she'd faced in hers years ago, but the answer hurt. It hurt more than she realized, and she felt the first crack in her courage.

But at what point did they both stop running from each other's pasts. At what point was it worth it to them to begin all over again someplace new. With their own dreams to grow.

"I should never have had to pay the price at all." Her voice was determined to touch him because she understood that on some elemental level she was losing him. "Any more than you should for me or for who you are, though I don't believe you honestly understand who you really are anymore."

That forced a wry smile from him. "Is that your expert opinion?"

"Yes, from someone who knows you better than you know yourself."

"Then we have officially traded drafting tools." There was tenderness in his eyes.

"I want Donally & Bailey to be us, not some brick-and-mortar company. I don't care who controls Ore Industries or how many seats you hold on the stock exchange. There is nothing material here that I want. Come to Ireland with me, Ryan."

He returned his attention to the window in an office that was the extension of his empire, his wealth, and all of his holdings. She stood beside him, barely six inches separating her skirt from his calf. Her life from his. Their future from the past. "I'm asking you to give up a lot to be with me. I imagine that makes me a selfish person for not doing the honorable thing and walking away. But I am a selfish person. Your journey with me will not lead to gold, but it will take you home, Ryan, if that is where you wish to go."

"To Ireland," his voice whispered.

Rachel's eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. Though home was anyplace they could live and be free to love, Ireland was a nice place to begin. But she couldn't say those words or voice that sentiment, for going home to Ireland suddenly seemed like everything she wanted to do. She wanted a simpler life than what they had. She wanted him to want that life as well, knowing it was so different from everything he had here.

"To Ireland," she echoed, not realizing that she was throwing an ultimatum in his face, until two men had knocked at the door, and it was too late to say more.

He was suddenly busy, as others demanded his attention. Sadly, she watched him take the sheaf of papers, watched him converse, reminding her that he would never be hers completely any more than he belonged solely to his daughter. Perhaps this was what Kathleen had seen. What she had tried to change, and could not.

After a moment, Rachel left the office, walked past Mrs. Stone and, after exiting the lift, hurried out onto the street. The air was stiff and humid. Pressing a gloved hand over her black hat, she looked up at the sky, wondering if it was going to rain but decided to walk to D&B, unwilling to go back to Lord Ravenspur's just yet. Tomorrow she would pack. Tomorrow she would go home.

Tears filmed her eyes. Chastising herself for her melancholy, Rachel dashed a sleeve at her cheeks. She had given Ryan the opening he needed, thrown down her gauntlet as it were. No more discussion.

She refused to play the martyr. But she'd never reached the part, yet, where she told him that no matter what he decided, she wasn't going to give him a divorce or an annulment. If he'd wanted another Rembrandt in his life, he should have thought about that before they created a child.

She had not told him about the child!

"Mum?"

Stewart's voice startled her. He stood on the curb, as if he'd just climbed out of a hansom. Watching him hurry toward her, she hastily dabbed the moisture from her face.

"I was hoping to find you here," he said, his voice urgent.

"What is it?"

"This came an hour ago, mum." He handed her the missive. "From Lord Bathwick. A boy brought it. Said his lordship will only speak to you."

Rachel thought about throwing the missive away. Tearing it into a thousand pieces as it were. The impassioned thought paused her hands, if only for a moment before she read the note, considered the intent of the message, and deemed it important enough to follow. "Very well," she said, refolding the missive.

She looked at Mr. Stewart still standing in the walkway. "You don't expect that I should go alone, do you?" she asked him, when a familiar hand reached over her shoulder and plucked the letter from her fingers.

Despite herself, she jumped. "Ryan!"

"Tell the driver we'll be taking the carriage," he spoke to Stewart, his dark eyes narrowing on the note, his mercurial mood evident.

She was searching his face, her sluggish thoughts racing just to see him, even as his expression grew dangerous. "You're wrong about him," she said in some indecision, watching his lashes lift to reveal his eyes.

"As usual you are too softhearted, love." His gloved fingers tipped her chin, then gently slid into her hair, and his gaze moved over hers with such intensity, Rachel felt her knees go weak. "You don't expect that I would let you do this alone, do you?"

"I hadn't intended to go alone. I was going to take Stewart."

Stewart gulped visibly, his sense of chivalry never more evident as he bravely replied, "Of course, sir."

"Your sacrifice is not necessary," Ryan said. "Whatever his lordship has to say can be said to us both." Turning that implacable gaze back to her, he raised a brow. "Don't you agree?"

"I should have expected that you would not come alone," Lord Bathwick said when Rachel was shown into the drawing room an hour later, Ryan behind her.

His hands on Rachel's shoulders, he paused in the doorway and did a quick mental survey of the drawing room. Lady Gwyneth sat on the settee, her hands folded primly in her lap. Wearing a white, billowy gown, she looked as if she were a bride sitting among the fragrant clouds. She wore a diamond-and-sapphire butterfly in her upswept hair, as glittery and bright as the smile she gave him. But as Bathwick stepped to her side, she lifted her hand to his, and her eyes spoke to the very depths of her heart. "We were married by special license yesterday," Bathwick said, immediately disabusing Ryan of the concern that Devonshire was presently hiding in some alcove.

"Felicitations, my lady," he replied, though curious why that should warrant a private conversation with Rachel.

"Won't you sit?" Lord Bathwick offered.

With an arm still possessively attached to Rachel's waist, he guided her to the settee across from the happy couple. "What is this about?" he asked.

"Before I go on, I want you to know that as of today, I have severed all ties with my father." Lord Bathwick looked down at Gwyneth, who still held his hand. "Tell them," he gently prompted. "She returned to London four days ago."

"There is a windowless room in the back of my uncle's library, set behind the bookshelves," Lady Gwyneth said. "Three months ago, I discovered the room. I remembered seeing papers and drawings at the time, but I never connected them to anything. After reading about everything that has taken place here in London, because of me," she erroneously asserted, smiling apologetically at Rachel, "I returned to talk to him in hopes that he would cease his ridiculous vendetta against you, Mr. Donally. This time when I went into the study, I found shelves of files that belong to you."