But he had no right to touch her. And he damn well had no right to say any of those things to her.

Mrs. Jennings fed him several spoonfuls of the broth in silence. Then she said, "I was very much in love with Mr. Jennings."

He eyed her, wondering if, at her advanced age, she might be slightly addled.

"Just like my mistress loves you." A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. "Before we married, Mr. Jennings did something that made me very angry indeed, and Ipunished him. I didn't shoot him, though perhaps Ishould have." She paused, empty spoon held in midair, and looked down at him, her face a prunelike mask ofdisapproval. "You must have disappointed her greatly."

He closed his eyes.

After a short silence, in which Jack heard only the sound of the spoon scraping the bowl, metal pressed against his lips. He opened his eyes and lips and took the proffered soup.

"She is a sensitive girl," Mrs. Jennings said softly, as if she didn't want Becky to hear from wherever she was. "I've only known her less than a fortnight, haven't I? Yet she wears her emotions plain on her chest, clear as day for anyone with half a brain to see."

Jack swallowed the salty broth.

"Can you see them? Her emotions, I mean?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jennings," he murmured. "I see them."

Becky was right to have shot him. Not once, even when he was closest to death, even when the pain was at its worst, had he questioned her choice or her motivation.

He'd betrayed her in the worst way possible-he'd demanded her trust and then he'd crushed it beneath his boot heel. If someone did the same to him, he wouldn't spare that person a second glance. He'd shoot and then turn away and let him rot.

And yet, every time he'd opened his eyes, she'd been there. Caring for him. Helping him. Praying for him. She'd wanted him to live, even after what he'd done toher.

"She is a melancholy girl, but she is a good lady," Mrs.Jennings said. "We are old, you see, and we've not kept her home as fine as she'd have wanted. Yet she didn't complain, not once. She got on her hands and knees and worked alongside Mr. Jennings and myself. And when our weary bones was tired, she entreated us to rest."

"Did she." Jack wasn't surprised. Of course she was a fair mistress. He wouldn't have expected her to be any other way.

Mrs. Jennings eyed him. "Aye, sir. She did. And then I've watched her care for you..."

"She was the one who shot me," he reminded her with no animosity.

"Aye, and I daresay you deserved it," Mrs. Jennings declared. "Lady Rebecca, she wouldn't harm a fly. Unless that fly did something of a very bad sort."

He sighed.

Mrs. Jennings raised the spoon. "She cared for you because she couldn't bear to see you suffer. And you will survive it now, and that brings her peace. But would you like to know what I'm thinking, sir?"

"What's that?" Jack asked dryly.

"I'm thinking it'd be more than trifling sad were she to be hurt again." Taking the spoon, Mrs. Jennings scooped up the last of the broth. "Very sad indeed. I don't think she'd survive it. Further, I think you're one of the few people, for whatever reason, who is capable of killing her."

Jack savored the warmth of the broth in his mouth. Heswallowed and remained silent for several long moments.

He knew what he had to do.

"I don't want her hurt, either, Mrs. Jennings." He took a shuddering breath. "I'm not going to allow it to happen again."

Becky tossed and turned until, finally, at dawn, she gave up. With a sigh, she went to her window and pulled the curtain aside.

A fine layer of ice covered the ground. Beyond, the ocean was as silken and gray as a seal's coat, rippling against the cliffs below. Becky pulled a chair to the window, propped her chin in her hand, and stared out as the sun burned through the wisps of fog and the sky lightened to a brilliant, jewel blue.

Soon it would be Christmas. The first Christmas she'd ever spent away from her family. The first Christmas in four years she'd spent apart from Kate and Garrett.

It was a lonely feeling. But when it came to her family-not only Kate and Garrett, but all of them-she knew that the feeling was mutual. They loved her unconditionally, and they would be missing her as much as she missed them.

She traced circles in the fog inside the windowpane. She'd told Mr. and Mrs. Jennings to wake her if there was any change for the worse in Jack's condition. No one had come into her room last night, which meant either that he was stable or that he had continued to improve.

Jack would heal. When he was well enough, they would separate. She would return to London, and he... Well, it didn't matter what he did. He would take his own path. Whatever he chose to do was of no concern to her.

Or, at least, it shouldn't concern her. If it did, it was a sign of her weakness. It had been far easier to let William go, but Jack... he had wended his way through her, and try as she might, she couldn't pry him free.

Sighing, she turned and dressed herself in one of the two dresses she had brought with her to Cornwall. This one was a deep green color reminiscent of holly. It reminded her of the season and was far more festive than her brown habit, which was now stained with grease and dirt from all the cleaning she'd done in it.

After she brushed, braided, and pinned her hair, she stared into the looking glass for a long time. She looked haggard and thin. Her straight hair hung in wisps around her face, and her eyes looked dark and large, set deep in her sallow face.

Too much guilt and fear, sadness and disappointment resided there. She shouldn't feel that way, truly. She had Kate and Garrett. Aunt Bertrice loved her in her gruff way, and Sophie and Tristan would never turn her away. Her nieces and nephews were all enamored of her. She was the favored aunt, and she loved them all.

She shouldn't feel this crushing weight of loneliness in her chest.

She turned to the door. Toward the man who had not so much been the source of her loneliness as deepened it, turned it into a physical ache.

So much... she'd wanted so much for him to love her. She closed her eyes, remembering those few days that she'd believed. How happy she'd been. How free she'd felt.

How could she capture that feeling ever again?

She exited her room, crossed the corridor, and slipped into Jack's room. To her surprise, he opened his eyes as soon as she pushed the door open.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning." She paused at the threshold, uncertain if he'd ask her to go away.

After a brief silence, he said, "Come in."

She walked over to her chair, pulled it back from the bed several inches, and sat.

He studied her for a few moments. "You look tired."

"I am fine." She gazed at his arm, narrowing her eyes at the fresh bandages. "Was Dr. Bellingham here?"

"Yes. He just left." Jack took a breath. "We knew you were asleep, so we were quiet."

She nodded. No point in correcting him.

He glanced down at his shoulder. "He splinted my arm, put it in a new sling, and he left more laudanum."

She knew, from her personal experience with her broken arm, that injuries like theirs weren't splinted until the swelling was down and they were on their way to healing. "That's excellent news."

"Yes."

"Does... does it hurt?"

"No. Well... I won't lie and say it doesn't hurt at all. But..." his eyes captured hers, held them in a snare, "... it hurts less than the knowledge of how much pain I have caused you."

A cement wall, established purely by an instinctual need for self-preservation, built up so quickly between them, she hardly had time to take a breath. She couldn't answer. She wouldn't-couldn't-believe him. She tore her gaze from his and stared at the foot of the smooth old gray silk counterpane. Once upon a time, her grandparents had used it on this bed. It was one of the few pieces of linen in the house that had been well preserved.

"Becky?"

She tried not to twist her hands. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

"What is the date?"

She jerked her gaze back to him. "It's the fourteenth of December."

"The fourteenth of December," he repeated in a whisper. Sorrow passed over his face; a look of exhaustion. Of defeat. Then he closed his eyes. "It's near Christmas, then. I've kept you from your family. If you leave soon, you can be in London by Christmas."

"No, Jack. I will remain here until you are well."

Chapter Twenty-two.

Jack improved rapidly. The doctor removed the sutures, his arm wound closed and scabbed, and he seemed to be in less pain. His color was good, and he grew stronger by the hour.

Four mornings after his fever broke, Becky went to see Jack only to find the bed mussed but empty. Frowning, she left his room and called in the corridor. When there was no response, she hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Jennings was baking bread.

"Have you seen Mr. Fulton this morning?"

"Why no, my lady, I haven't."

Panic beat in Becky's chest. Where was he? Where could he be?

She searched the remaining rooms of the house, then looked for him outside. She called his name across the grounds, and even went as far as Mr. and Mrs. Jennings's cottage. All was serene and quiet on this sunny, crisp winter's morning.

She stumbled back into the house, worried, horrified that he might have left Seawood. Where could he havegone? It was so cold, and he hadn't taken the horse, so he must have departed on foot. He'd told her that when he'd come from London in search of her, he'd come by post to Launceston, begged a ride from a farmer to Camelford, and then walked the rest of the way. There were limited options for transportation between here and Camelford, and the village was five miles away. She wasn't sure he could walk that far now, not with his injury, not in this cold.

Lifting her skirts, she hurried upstairs to see if he'd left any evidence of where he'd gone.

There it was. A sheet of stationery on his pillow. How could she have missed it earlier?

She reached trembling fingers toward it. It was written in a shaky hand-Jack had used his healthier left hand to pen the note.

December 17, 1827 Dearest Becky, I've remained under your attentive care long enough. I will not place you in further danger bystaying at your home. Tom Wortingham promised to release the evidence two days ago, and he will stay true to his word. The authorities are now hunting for the murderer of the Marquis of Haredowne.

I know what I have done to you is unforgivable, but I cannot help myself but to be so bold as to beg you, one final time, to forgive me. My intentions at the beginning, even though I felt an undeniable longing for you from the start, were dishonorable. Detestable.

Two months ago, I believed that nothing was more precious than my own neck. Now, I know how wrong I was. I've learned that nothing will ever be more important to me than the few stolen moments in which I was gifted with your trust-and with your love.

Good-bye, my love. Be safe. Be happy.

Jack Staring down at the paper, Becky sank onto the edge of the bed.

She'd sent letters with Sam on the afternoon of the thirteenth of December. Jack's letter said he was a fugitive as of the fifteenth.

The date imposed by Tom Wortingham was the fifteenth of December. There was no way that Sam could have arrived in London in time. She was too late. If Wortingham truly had revealed his evidence, the authorities would be scouring the countryside for Jack. They could be on their way to Cornwall to take him into custody this very instant.

"Oh, I am such a fool."

When Mrs. Jennings had given Becky the letter from Tom Wortingham, she'd said they hadn't fetched the mail for several days. Wortingham's letter must have been sitting at Camelford, waiting for days while Jack was in the throes of his fever.

Becky read the letter again and again. She took it everywhere she went, thought about nothing but its contents. Mr. and Mrs. Jennings shot her concerned glances the day long, but they otherwise left her alone.

At sunset, Becky sat at her window, staring out overthe sea. A storm was brewing and the wind blew hard, whipping a white froth across the surface of the water.

Where had Jack gone? She hated the thought of him alone out there, yet she tried to remember that he was a strong man who'd seen worse weather than this at sea. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. The fever and his wound had weakened him, but he wasn't an invalid. He was solid, innately strong, and he could manage a winter storm well enough.

Still, she tried not to think about how he'd get a coat on over his wound or a glove on his hand, or the fact that he might not have been able to walk as far as Camelford.

Pulling his letter from her pocket, she read it once again. Slowly, this time. She analyzed each word.

There was no pretense in Jack's words. He'd been honest with her from the moment he'd walked into Seawood. At some point before coming to Cornwall, he'd gone to Tom Wortingham and informed him that the scheme was over. His remorse for what he'd done was palpable. He didn't blame her for shooting him; he'd considered it a well-deserved punishment for what he'd done.

Even though he no longer had a reason to proclaim his affection for her-for it was too late for him to make use of her money-he'd said he loved her.

And that look of defeat on his face when she'd told him it was the fourteenth-he'd known then that he was doomed, that he would soon be a fugitive. Still, he hadn't said a word. He hadn't asked her for a penny, or even for her help. And when he'd gone, he hadn't taken a thing with him that wasn't his own.

Maybe once he'd been dishonorable and selfish. Maybe once he'd tried to manipulate and seduce her, but no longer.

He'd stayed in her house for a few days after his fever broke, but now that she thought back on it, she realized he'd been preparing himself for his imminent departure. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd eaten heartily and exercised his body by walking around the house, and while he wasn't dismissive toward her, he didn't engage her in meaningful discussions. He remained politely aloof.

She hoped he would escape from the authorities. She hoped he would run far away. She prayed that he would be happy and safe, in a place where the shadow of his past deeds didn't loom over him. It would always loom over him here in England, even if nobody ever discovered the truth of what had happened between him and the Marquis of Haredowne. There were too many terrible, heartbreaking memories here for him.

But she would miss him. Lord, she missed him already.

Her hand opened, and his letter fluttered to the floor.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned forward, pressing her palms and cheek against the cold panes of her window.

For the past two weeks, she'd sheltered her heart with pride and anger. But both were melting away.

She loved Jack. She loved him, and she didn't want to be without him. She believed his letter. He truly had no reason to lie to her, not any longer.

He'd shown that he was an honorable man. He'd made a terrible mistake, but he'd owned up to it. Then he'd suffered. He'd struggled to survive because she'd begged him to. And then, believing the authorities must be searching for him, he'd left her to keep her safe, holding onto his promise of survival.