"Well, either the interest you exhibited in fishing two years ago was real, or it was your courteous way of putting me at ease and letting me talk about the things that interested me. If the former is true, then I can only a.s.sume your terror of fish yesterday isn't quite. . . shall we say . . . as profound as you would have had me believe?"

They looked at each other, he with a knowing smile, Elizabeth with br.i.m.m.i.n.g laughter. "Perhaps it is not quite so profound, my lord."

His eyes positively twinkled. "Would you care to make a try for that trout you cost me this morning? He's still out there taunting me, you know."

Elizabeth burst out laughing, and the earl joined her. When their laughter had died away Elizabeth looked across the desk at him, feeling as if they were truly friends. It would have been so lovely to sit by the stream without her slippers, waiting to test her own considerable skill with pole and line. On the other hand, she wanted neither to put him to the inconvenience of keeping them as house guests nor to risk that he might change his mind about their betrothal. "All things considered," she said slowly, "I think it best if my aunt and I were on our way tomorrow to our last. . . to our destination."

The next day dawned clear and fine with birds singing outside in the trees and sun shining gaily in an azure sky. Unfortunately, it was one of those days when solutions to the problems of the night before did not automatically present themselves, and as Lord Marchman handed Berta and her into their coach Elizabeth had still not resolved her dilemma. She could not remain here now that her task was accomplished; on the other hand, the prospect of arriving at Ian Thornton's home in Scotland, nearly a fortnight before she was expected and with Berta instead of Lucinda, did not appeal to her at all. In order to confront that man, she wanted Lucinda with her-Lucinda, who cowered before no one and who would be able to advise Elizabeth when advice was needed. The obvious solution was therefore to proceed to the inn where Lucinda was to meet them and to remain there until she arrived. Uncle Julius, with typical reverence for a shilling and unswerving practicality, had worked out what he called a budget and had given her only enough extra money to cover emergencies. Elizabeth told herself this was an emergency and resolved to spend the money and worry about explanations later.

Aaron was still waiting for instruction as to where to go, and Elizabeth made up her mind. "To Carlington, Aaron," she said. "We'll wait for Lucinda at the inn there."

Turning, she smiled with genuine affection at Lord Marchman and offered him her hand through the open window of the coach. "Thank you," she said shyly but with great sincerity, "for being all the things you are, my lord."

His face scarlet with pleasure at her compliment, John Marchman stepped back and watched her coach pull out of his drive. He watched it until the horses turned onto the road, then he slowly walked back toward the house and went into his study. Sitting down at his desk, he looked at the note he'd written her uncle and idly drummed his fingers upon his' desk, recalling her disturbing answer when he asked if she'd dissuaded old Belhaven from pressing his suit. "I think I have." she'd said. And then John made his decision.

Feeling rather like an absurd knight in shining armor rushing to save an unwilling damsel in the event of future distress, he took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote out a new message to her uncle. As it always happened the moment courtship was involved, Lord Marchman lost his ability to be articulate. His note read: If Belhaven asks for her, please advise me of it. I think I want her first.

Chapter 11.

Ian Thornton stood in the center of the large cottage in Scotland where he had been born. Now he used it as a hunting box, but it was much more than that to him. It was the place where he knew he could always find peace and reality; the one place where he could escape, for a while, the hectic pace of his life. With his hands thrust deep in his pockets he looked about him, seeing it again through the eyes of an adult. "Every time I come back it's smaller than I remembered," he told the ruddy-faced, middle-aged man who was trudging through the front doors with heavy sacks of provisions slung over his shoulder.

"Things always look bigger when yer little," Jake said, unceremoniously dumping the sacks onto the dusty sideboard. "That's the lot o' it, 'cept my gear," he said. He pulled his pistol out of his belt and put it on the table. "I'll put the horses away."

Ian nodded absently, but his attention was on the cottage. An aching nostalgia swelled inside him as he remembered the years he'd lived here as a child. In his heart he heard his father's deep voice and his mother's answering laughter. To his right was the hearth where his mother had once prepared their meals before the arrival of their stove. At right angles to the hearth were the two tan high-backed chairs in which his parents had spent long, cozy evenings before the fire, talking in low voices so that Ian and his younger sister wouldn't be disturbed in their bedrooms above. Across from that was a sofa upholstered in a st.u.r.dy tan and brown plaid.

It was all here, just as Ian remembered. Turning, he looked down at the dust-covered table beside him, and with a smile he reached out and touched the surface, his long fingers searching the surface for a specific set of scratches. It took several seconds of rubbing, but slowly they came into view-four clumsily formed letters: I.G.B.T.-his initials, scratched into the surface when he was a little over three years old. That piece of mischief had nearly gotten him a good shaking until his mother realized he'd been teaching himself his letters without her help.

His lessons had begun the next day, and when his mother's considerable learning had been exhausted his father took over, teaching him geometry and physics and everything he'd learned at Eton and Cambridge. When Ian was fourteen Jake Wiley had joined the household as a jack-of-all-trades, and from him Ian had learned firsthand of the sea, and ships, and mysterious lands on the other side of the world. Later he had gone with Jake to see them himself and to put his education to use.

He'd returned home three years afterward, eager to see his family, only to discover that a few days earlier they had died in a fire at an inn where they had gone to await his impending return. Even now Ian felt the wrenching loss of his mother and father, the proud man who had turned his back on his n.o.ble heritage and instead married the sister of a poor Scottish vicar. By his actions he had forfeited a dukedom. . . and had never given a blessed d.a.m.n. Or so he said. The poignancy of being here after two long years was almost past bearing, and Ian tipped his head back, closing his eyes against the bittersweet ache of it. He saw his father grinning and shaking his hand as Ian prepared to depart on his first voyage with Jake. "Take care," he had said. "Remember, no matter how far you go, we'll always be with you."

Ian had left that day, the impecunious son of a disowned English lord whose entire fortune was a small bag of gold his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday. Now, fourteen years later, there were fleets of ships flying Ian's flag and carrying his cargo; mines filled with his silver and tin; warehouses loaded with precious goods that he owned. But it was land that had originally made him rich. A large parcel of barren-looking land that he'd won at cards from a colonial who swore the old mine there had gold in it. And it had. Gold that bought more mines, and ships, and palatial homes in Italy and India.

Gambling everything on a series of investments had paid off for Ian again and again. Once society had called him a gambler; now he was regarded as some sort of mythical king with a golden touch. Rumors flew and prices soared on the 'change every time he bought a stock. He could not set foot into a ball without the butler bellowing out his name. Where once he had been a social pariah, those same people who had shunned him now courted his favor-or, more precisely, his financial advice, or his money for their daughters. His wealth had brought Ian many luxuries, but no extraordinary joy. It was the gamble he loved best-the challenge of selecting exactly the right venture and the thrill of wagering a fortune on it. Moreover, success had come with a price it had cost him his right to privacy, and he resented that.

Now his grandfather's actions were adding to his unwanted notoriety. The death of Ian's father had evidently caused the old duke to feel some belated regret for the estrangement, and for the last twelve years he'd been writing to Ian periodically. At first he had pleaded with Ian to come and visit him at Stanhope. When Ian ignored his letters, he'd tried bribing him with promises to name Ian his legitimate heir. Those letters had gone unanswered, and for the last two years the old man's silence had misled Ian into thinking he'd given up. Four months ago, however, another letter bearing Stanhope's ducal crest had been delivered to Ian, and this one infuriated him.

The old man had imperiously given Ian four months in which to appear at Stanhope and meet with him to discuss arrangements for the transfer of six estates-estates that would have been Ian's father's inheritance had the duke not disowned him. According to the letter, if Ian did not appear, the duke planned to proceed without him, publicly naming him his heir, Ian had written to his grandfather for the first time in his life; the note had been short and final. It was also eloquent proof that Ian Thornton was as unforgiving as his grandfather, who'd rejected his own son for two decades: "Try it and you'll look a fool. I'll disclaim all knowledge of any relationship with you, and if you still persist, I'll let your t.i.tle and your estates rot."

The four months had elapsed now, and there had been no more communications from the duke, but in London gossip was still rampant that Stanhope was about to name an heir. And that the heir would be his natural grandson, Ian Thornton. Now invitations to b.a.l.l.s and soirees arrived in tidal waves from the same people who had long ago shunned him as an undesirable, and their hypocrisy alternately amused and disgusted him.

"That black horse we used for packin' up here is the most cantankerous beast alive," Jake grumbled, rubbing his arm.

Ian lifted his gaze from the initials on the tabletop and turned to Jake, making no attempt to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt. "Bit you, did he?"

"d.a.m.n right he bit me!" the older man said bitterly. "He's been after a chunk of me since we left the coach at Hayborn and loaded those sacks on his back to bring up here."

"I warned you he bites anything he can reach. Keep your arm out of his way when you're saddling him."

"If it weren't my arm he was after, it was my a.r.s.e! Opened his mouth and went for it, only I saw him out 'ter the comer of my eye and swung around, so he missed." Jake's frown darkened when he saw the amus.e.m.e.nt in Ian's expression. "Can't see why you've bothered to feed him all these years. He doesn't deserve to share a stable with your other horses-beauties they are, every one but him."

"Try slinging packs over the backs of one of those and you'll see why I took him. He was suitable for using as a pack mule; none of my other cattle would have been," Ian said. frowning as he lifted his head and looked about at the months of acc.u.mulated dirt covering everything.

"He's slower'n a pack mule," Jake replied. "Mean and stubborn and slow," he concluded, but he, too, was frowning a little as he looked around at the thick layers of dust coating every surface. "Thought you said you'd arranged for some village wenches to come up here and clean and cook 'fer us. This place is a mess."

"I did, I dictated a message to Peters for the caretaker, . asking him to stock the place with food and to have two women come up here to clean and cook. The food is here, and there are chickens out in the barn. He must be having difficulty finding two women to stay up here."

"Comely women, I hope," Jake said. "Did you tell him to make the wenches comely?"

Ian paused in his study of the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling and cast him an amused look. "You wanted me to tell a seventy-year-old caretaker who's half-blind to make certain the wenches were comely?"

"Couldn'ta hurt t' mention it," Jake grumbled, but he looked chastened.

"The village is only twelve miles away. You can always stroll down there if you've urgent need of a woman while we're here. Of course, the trip back up here may kill you," he joked referring to the winding path up the cliff that seemed to be almost vertical.

"Never mind women," Jake said in an abrupt change of heart, his tanned, weathered face breaking into a broad grin. "I'm here for a fortnight of fishin' and relaxin', and that's enough for any man. It'll be like the old days, Ian-peace and quiet and naught else. No hoity-toity servants hearin' every word what's spoke, no carriages and barouches and matchmaking mamas arrivin' at your house. I tell you, my boy, though I've not wanted to complain about the way you've been livin' this past year, I don't like these servants o' yours above half. That's why I didn't come t'visit you very often. Yer butler at Montmayne holds his nose so far in t'air, it's amazin' he gets any oxhegen, and that French chef o' yers practically threw me out of his kitchens. That what he called 'em-his kitchens, and-" The old seaman abruptly broke off, his expression going from irate to crestfallen, "Ian," he said anxiously, "did you ever learn t' cook while we was apart?"

"No, did you?"

"h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, no!" Jake said, appalled at the prospect of having to eat anything he fixed himself.

"Lucinda," Elizabeth said for the third time in an hour, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this." Five days ago, Lucinda had arrived at the inn at the Scottish border where she joined Elizabeth for the journey to Ian Thornton's house. This morning, their hired coach broke an axle, and they were now ignominiously ensconced on the back of a hay wagon belonging to a farmer, their trunks and valises tipping precariously to and fro along the rutted path that evidently pa.s.sed for a road in Scotland. The prospect of arriving in a hay wagon on Ian Thornton's doorstep was so horrible that Elizabeth preferred to concentrate on her guilt, rather than her forthcoming meeting with the monster who had ruined her life.

"As I said the last time you apologized. Elizabeth," Lucinda replied. "it is not your fault, and therefore not your responsibility to apologize, for the deplorable lack of roads and conveyances in this heathen country."

"Yes, but if it weren't for me you wouldn't be here." Lucinda sighed impatiently, clutched the side of the hay wagon as it made a particularly sharp lurch, and righted herself. "And as I have already admitted, if I hadn't been deceived into mentioning Mr. Thornton's name to your uncle, neither of us would be here. You are merely experiencing some nervousness at the disagreeable prospect of confronting the man, and there is no reason in the world-" The wagon tipped horribly and they both clutched at the sides of it for leverage. "-no reason in the world to continue apologizing. Your time would be better spent preparing yourself for the unhappy occasion."

"You're right, of course." "Of course," Lucinda agreed unhesitatingly. "I am always right, as you know. Nearly always," she amended, obviously thinking of how she had been misled by Julius Cameron into revealing the name of Ian Thornton as one of Elizabeth's former suitors. As she'd explained to Elizabeth as soon as she arrived at the inn, she'd only given his name as a suitor because Julius had begun asking questions about Elizabeth's reputation during her debut. and about whether she'd been popular or not. Thinking he'd heard some of the malicious gossip about Elizabeth's involvement with Ian Thornton, Lucinda had tried to put a better face on things by including his name among Elizabeth's many suitors.

"I would rather face the devil himself than that man," Elizabeth said with a repressed shudder.

"I daresay," Lucinda agreed, clutching her umbrella with one hand and the side of the cart with her other.

The nearer the time came, the more angry and confused Elizabeth became about this meeting. For the first four days of their journey, her tension had been greatly allayed by the scenic grandeur of Scotland with its rolling hills and deep valleys carpeted in bluebells and hawthorne. Now, however, as the hour of confronting him drew near, not even the sight of the mountains decked out in spring flowers or the bright blue lakes below could calm her mounting tension. "Furthermore, I cannot believe he has the slightest desire to see me."

"We shall soon find out." In the hills above the high, winding track that pa.s.sed for a road, a shepherd paused to gape at an old wooden wagon making its laborious way along the road below. "Lookee there, Will," he told his brother. "Do you see what I see?" The brother looked down and gaped, his lips parting in a toothless grin of glee at the comical sight of two ladies bonnets, gloves, and all-who were perched primly and precariously on the back of Sean MacLaesh's haywagon, their backs ramrod-stiff, their feet sticking straight out beyond the wagon.

"Don't that beat all," Will laughed, and high above the haywagon he swept off his cap in a mocking salute to the ladies. "I heerd in the village Ian Thornton was a comin' home. I'll wager 'e's arrived, and them two are his fancy pieces, come to warmt 'is bed an' see to 'is needs."

Blessedly unaware of the conjecture taking place between the two spectators up in the hills, Miss Throckmorton-Jones brushed angrily and ineffectually at the coating of dust clinging to her black skirts. "I have never in all my life been subjected to such treatment!" she hissed furiously as the wagon they were riding in gave another violent, creaking lurch and her shoulder banged into Elizabeth's. "You may depend on this-I shall give Mr. Ian Thornton a piece of my mind for inviting two gentlewomen to this G.o.dforsaken wilderness, and never even mentioning that a traveling barouche is too wide for the roads!"

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something soothing. but just then the wagon gave another teeth-jarring lurch, and she clutched at the wooden side. "From what little I know of him, Lucy," she managed finally when the wagon righted, "he wouldn't care in the least what we've been through. He's rude and inconsiderate-and those are his good points-"

"Whoa there, whoa." the farmer called out. sawing back on the swayback nag's reins and bringing the wagon to a groaning stop. "That's the Thornton place up there atop yon hill," the farmer said. pointing.

Lucinda gazed in mounting anger at the large, but unimpressive cottage that was barely visible through the thick trees. then she turned the full force of her authority on the hapless farmer. "You're mistaken, my good man," she said stoutly. "No gentleman of consequence or sense would live in such a G.o.dforsaken place as this. Kindly turn this decrepit vehicle around and return us to the village whence we came so that we can ask directions again. There was obviously a misunderstanding."

At that. both the horse and the farmer swung their heads around and looked at her with identical expressions of weary resentment.

The horse remained silent, but the farmer had heard Lucinda's irate complaints for the last twelve miles. and be was heartily sick of them. "See here, my lady," he began, but Lucinda cut him off.

"Do not address me as 'my lady', 'Miss Throckmorton-Jones' will do very well."

"Aye. Well, whoever ye be. this is as far as I'm takin' ye, and that thar is the Thornton cottage."

"You can't mean to abandon us here!" she said as the tired old man exhibited a surge of renewed energy obviously brought on by the prospect of ridding himself of his unwanted guests-and leapt off the wagon. whereupon he began to drag their trunks and bandboxes off the wagon and onto the side of the narrow ledge that pa.s.sed for a road.

"What if they aren't homer' she gasped as Elizabeth took ,pity on the elderly farmer and began helping him drag one of the trunks down.

"Then we'll simply come down here and wait for another farmer to be kind enough to give us a ride," Elizabeth said with a courage she didn't quite feel.

"I wouldna plan on't," said the farmer as Elizabeth withdrew a coin and placed it in his hand. "Thankee, milady, thankee kindly," he said, touching his cap and smiling a little at the younger lady, with the breathtaking face and shimmering blond hair.

"Why shouldn't we count on it?" Lucinda demanded. "Because," said the farmer as he climbed back onto his wagon, "there ain't likely to be n.o.body comin' along for a week or two, mebbe more. There's rain comin' on tomorrow, I'd guess, or the day after. Can't get a wagon through here when it rains hard. Besides," he said, taking pity on the young miss, who'd gone a little pale, "see smoke comin' out o' yon chimney, so there's someone up there."

With a snap of the worn reins he drove off, and for a minute Elizabeth and Lucinda just stood there while a fresh cloud of dust settled all around them. Finally Elizabeth gave. herself a firm mental shake and tried to take things in hand. "Lucy, if you'll take one end of that trunk there, I can take the other, and we can carry it up to the house."

"You'll do no such thing!" Lucinda cried angrily. "We shall leave everything right here and let Thornton send his servants down here."

"We could do that," Elizabeth said, "but it's a treacherous, steep climb, and the trunk is light enough, so there's no point in someone having to me an extra trip. Please, Lucy, "I'm too exhausted to argue."

Lucinda turned a swift look upon Elizabeth's pale, apprehensive face and swallowed her argument. "You're quite right," she said briskly.

Elizabeth was not entirely right. The climb was steep enough, but the trunk, which originally felt quite light, seemed to gain a pound of weight with every step they took. A few yards from the house both ladies paused to rest again, then Elizabeth resolutely grabbed the handle on her end. "You go to the door, Lucy," she said breathlessly, worried for the older woman's health if she had to lug the trunk any further. "I'll just drag this along."

Miss Throckmorton-Jones took one look at her poor, bedraggled charge, and rage exploded in her breast that they'd been brought so low as this. Like an angry general she gave her gloves an irate yank, turned on her heel, marched up to the front door, and lifted her umbrella. Using its handle like a club, she rapped hard upon the door.

Behind her Elizabeth doggedly dragged the trunk. "You don't suppose there's no one home?" She panted, hauling the trunk the last few feet.

"If they're in there, they must be deaf!" said Lucinda. She brought up her umbrella again and began swinging at the door in a way that sent rhythmic thunder through the house. "Open up, I say!" she shouted, and on the third downswing the door suddenly lurched open to reveal a startled middleaged man who was struck on the head by the handle of the descending umbrella.

"G.o.d's teeth," Jake swore, grabbing his head and glowering a little dizzily at the homely woman who was glowering right back at him, her black bonnet crazily askew atop her wiry gray hair"

"It's G.o.d's ears you need, not his teeth," the sour-faced woman informed him as she caught Elizabeth's sleeve and pulled her one step into the house. "We are expected," she informed Jake. In his understandably dazed state, Jake took another look at the bedraggled, dusty ladies and erroneously a.s.sumed they were the women from the village come to clean and cook for Ian and him. His entire countenance changed. and a broad grin swept across his ruddy face. The growing lump on his head forgiven and forgotten, he stepped back. "Welcome, welcome," he said expansively, and he made a broad, sweeping gesture with his hand that encompa.s.sed the entire dusty room. "Where do you want to begin?"

"With a hot bath," said Lucinda, "followed by some tea and refreshments."

From the corner of her eye Elizabeth glimpsed a tall man who was stalking in from a room behind the one where they stood. and an uncontrollable tremor of dread shot through her.

"Don't know as I want a bath just now," Jake said. "Not for you, you dolt, for Lady Cameron."

Elizabeth could have sworn Ian Thornton stiffened with shock. His head jerked toward her as if trying to see past the rim of her bonnet, but Elizabeth was absolutely besieged with cowardice and kept her head averted.

"You want a bath?" Jake repeated dumbly, staring at Lucinda.

"Indeed, but Lady Cameron's must come first. Don't just stand there," she snapped, threatening his midsection with her umbrella. "Send servants down to the road to fetch our trunks at once." The point of the umbrella swung meaningfully toward the door, then returned to jab Jake's middle. ";But before you do that, inform your master that we have arrived."

"His master," said a biting voice from a rear doorway, "is aware of that."

Elizabeth swung around at the scathing tone of Ian's voice, and her fantasy of seeing him fall to his knees in remorse the moment he set eyes on her collapsed the instant she saw his face; it was as hard and forbidding as a granite sculpture. He did not bother to come forward but instead. remained where he was, his shoulder propped negligently against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching her through narrowed eyes. Until then Elizabeth had thought she remembered exactly what he looked like, but she hadn't. Not really. His suede jacket clung to wide shoulders that were broader and more muscular than she'd remembered, and his thick hair was almost black. His face was one of leashed sensuality and arrogant handsomeness with its sculpted mouth and striking eyes, but now she noticed the cynicism in those golden eyes and the ruthless set of his jaw-things she'd obviously been too young and naive to see before. Everything about him exuded brute strength, and that in turn made her feel even more helpless as she searched his features for some sign that this aloof, forbidding man had actually held and kissed her with seductive tenderness.

"Have you had an edifying look at me, Countess?" he snapped, and before she could recover from the shock of that rude greeting his next words rendered her nearly speechless. "You are a remarkable young woman, Lady Cameron-you must possess the instincts of a bloodhound to track me here. Now that you've succeeded, there is the door. Use it."

Elizabeth's momentary shock gave way to a sudden, almost uncontrollable burst of wrath. "I beg your pardon?" she said tightly.

"You heard me."

"I was invited here."

"Of course you were," Ian mocked, realizing in a flash of surprise that the letter he'd had from her uncle must not have been a prank, and that Julius Cameron had obviously, decided to regard Ian's lack of reply as willingness, which was nothing less than absurd and obnoxious. In the last months, since news of his wealth and his possible connection to the Duke of Stanhope had been made public, he'd become accustomed to being pursued by the same socialites who had once cut him. Normally he found it annoying; from Elizabeth Cameron he found it revolting.

He stared at her in insolent silence, unable to believe the alluring, impulsive girl he remembered had become this coolly aloof, self-possessed young woman. Even with her dusty clothes and the smear of dirt on her cheek, Elizabeth Cameron was strikingly beautiful, but she'd changed so much that-except for the eyes-he scarcely recognized her. One thing hadn't changed: She was still a schemer and a liar.

Straightening abruptly from his stance in the doorway, Ian walked forward. "I've had enough of this charade, Miss Cameron. No one invited you here, and you d.a.m.n well know it."

Blinded with wrath and humiliation, Elizabeth groped in her reticule and s.n.a.t.c.hed out the handwritten letter her uncle had received inviting Elizabeth to join Ian there. Marching up to him, she slapped the invitation against his chest. Instinctively he caught it but didn't open it.

"Explain that," she commanded, backing away and then waiting.

"Another note, I'll wager," he drawled sarcastically, thinking of the night he'd gone to the greenhouse to meet her and recalling what a fool he'd been about her.

Elizabeth stood beside the table, determined to have the satisfaction of hearing his explanation before she left-not that anything he said could make her stay. When he showed no sign of opening it, she turned furiously to Jake, who was sorely disappointed that Ian was deliberately chasing off two females who could surely be persuaded to do the cooking if they stayed. "Make him read it aloud," she ordered the startled Jake.

"Now, Ian," Jake said, thinking of his empty stomach and the bleak future that lay ahead for it if the ladies went away, "why don't you jes' read that there little note, like the lady asked?"

When Ian Thornton ignored the older man's suggestion, Elizabeth lost control of her temper. Without thinking what she was actually doing, she reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the pistol off the table, primed it, c.o.c.ked it, and leveled it at Ian Thornton's broad chest. "Read that note."

Jake, whose concern was still on his stomach, held up his hands as if the gun were pointed at him. "Ian, it could be a misunderstanding. you know, and it's not nice to be rude to these ladies. Why-don't you read it, and then we'll all sit down and have a nice"-he inclined his head meaningfully to the sack of provisions on the table supper."

"I don't need to read it," Ian snapped. "The last time I read a note from Lady Cameron I met her in a greenhouse and got shot in the arm for my trouble."

"Are you implying I invited you into that greenhouse?" Elizabeth scoffed furiously.

With an impatient sigh Ian said, "Since you're obviously determined to enact a Cheltenham tragedy, let's get it over with before you're on your way."

"You deny you sent me a note?" she snapped.

"Of course I deny it."

"Then what were you doing in the greenhouse?" she shot back at him.

"I came in response to that nearly illegible note you sent me," he said in a bored, insulting drawl. "May I suggest that in future you devote less of your time to theatrics and some of it to improving your handwriting?" His gaze shifted to the pistol. "Put the gun down before you hurt yourself."