Bea's throat worked and she tried to scream but no sound came forth. Only her breathing remained, hard and fast, panic-driven, the fox before the hunt.

Her blood slowed, thick and cold in each vein, every artery, the scent of ash all around. Her lungs drained. From inside she was beginning to freeze, becoming solid, no longer living flesh, but dead, chill matter.

She sobbed deep within where light no longer penetrated, no pulse of existence, only inky darkness, beyond all feeling but despair and grief. And consuming loneliness.

Endless . . . eternal . . . empty.

She slipped, slid, her body growing slack, releasing the remnants of her will.

Releasing life.

"Peter," she breathed, a last hopeless whisper.

Warmth poured into her.

She gasped, heat surging up from her core into her belly, into her chest and neck, spreading along her arms and legs and around her head, filling her, replacing the cold like a maelstrom. Hands touched her, strong and deliberate, spreading on her waist and curving around to her back, over her shoulders, drawing her close to encompassing warmth. They moved, stroking along her shoulders and arms, lacing with her fingers and then caressing her hips, dipping between her thighs. Intimate, tender. Seeking.

Giddy, luscious flame licked at her, gripping, stretching her arms wide and working her throat. A sound came forth from her mouth, a moan of pure ecstasy as a wave of heat spilled through her, seizing her around the hips, prickling her nipples to peaks. She moved against the sensations, shifting her body to feel the lap of hot friction against and within it. Damp scored her thighs, the taut peaks of her breasts so hard they ached. She felt no need, only the rapturous concourse of answered hunger.

She fell into pleasure, gasping, gulping in air, her flesh wracked with the sweetest delirium, convulsions of perfect delight. Joyful sobs shuddered through her, washing along her thighs, breasts, and hands, curling delectably in her womb.

Her palms sought her belly and mouth, pressing inward to hold herself together, clamping her lips to allow nothing to escape. Within, beneath her skin, deep and brilliant and miraculous, she trembled through a shower of illuminated bliss.

It came apart slowly, releasing her into awareness of her bedchamber, the scent of evening, the touch of fire-warmed air upon her skin.

Her body sagged, legs shaking and then collapsing beneath her exhausted body.

Strong arms surrounded her. Familiar and safe. Beloved.

Her mind let go, and she fell to the floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Tip returned to the castle in a daze. Leaving his horse with Dibin in the drive, he went directly to Miss Dews's chamber and deposited the antidote cordial with Lady Marstowe. She woke her sister to administer it, and Tip retreated to the corridor. He must clear his head.

At the cottage, he had stated the case to Miss Minturn, and she'd given him the antidote instantly. Or so it seemed. But something was wrong. He had entered her cottage the moment the castle bell struck the hour. Now, according to the clock across from him in the corridor, it was nearly seven o'clock. It did not require that long to ride back from the village, a mere ten minutes at best.

And the dream . . .

Had he dreamt it on the ride to the governess's house, or on the path back? Or not at all?

He could still feel Bea's body in his hands, her quivering pleasure. He could still taste her ecstasy. He had never before dreamt so vividly, and certainly not while awake. It left him stunned and shaking.

The door behind him opened.

"The fever has left her. She is sitting up and asking for dinner." Lady Marstowe's face showed calm relief. "Thank you for your part in it, my lord."

Tip glanced down the corridor. "Is- Has Miss Sinclaire-"

"When she did not come to us after some time, my maid went to her bedchamber. She has not yet returned."

His heart clenched. "Excuse me, if you will, my lady." He strode to Bea's door. Wanting to burst in, he knocked. The dowager's maid pulled the panel open a crack, breathed a wide-eyed sigh of relief, and beckoned him in.

"I found her like this, milord." She gestured toward the hearth. Before it, Bea lay on the floor, a pillow stuffed beneath her head.

He jolted forward.

She was warm. He lifted her and laid her on the bed.

"I couldn't move her myself." The maid wrung her hands. "But I didn't dare leave her so I could run and tell milady. And what would she have been able to do? Someone needed to stay with Miss Julia."

"When did you come in here?"

"Half past the hour. Is she ill?"

"It's all right. You did well." He sat on the edge of the bed by Bea's hip and rested his hand on her brow. She had no fever, and her breaths seemed to be the regular breathing of sleep. Her cheeks were dusted with the hue of a ripe peach. "She is sleeping." He turned to the servant woman. "Go tell Lady Marstowe. Miss Dews is already recovered. Then wait in the corridor nearby in the event that Lady Harriet or Mr. Sinclaire should seek their daughter, and inform me immediately."

"Yes, milord." She ducked an anxious curtsy and hurried from the chamber.

He smoothed back Bea's hair from her clear brow. Even in sleep she was beautiful, and she held his heart as securely as though it were bound by chain and lock. He had gone to Porthmadog to escape the tumult that touching her and arguing with her created in him. But he had thought of nothing but her, even while transacting his business. Now, still furious with her for forcing him to cry off, he could not look his fill.

He hadn't meant it. Any of it. In the kitchen he had bluffed merely to test her, and she had called him on it. If she continued to refuse him he would force her to wed him. He had taken her maidenhead. And he could no longer live without her.

Her eyes fluttered open, and his breaths stilled. Her wide, dark gaze scanned his face, focusing, remembering, then returning to his eyes.

He whispered her name, his voice rough.

She drew in a slow breath and her body shifted, testing wakefulness. She returned the pressure of his hand. Tip swallowed through the desert of his throat.

"I must have swooned," she said unsteadily.

He nodded, not trusting his voice again.

"Is Iversly here?"

He shook his head. His gaze traveled over her features, memorizing anew. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," she said quietly. A flurry of emotion passed across her eyes-pleasure, doubt, then reticence.

Tip's heart lurched. What had Iversly done to her to leave her sprawled on the floor unconscious? Memory of his dream rapped at his senses, of Bea's body in his hands, her pleasure.

"What happened?" she asked. "Did it work? How is Aunt Julia?"

"Miss Minturn gave me the antidote. Your great-aunt has taken it and is already recovering."

Bea pushed herself to a sitting position. "Oh, thank heavens," she breathed. "But how long have I been unconscious?"

"Nearly three quarters of an hour."

Her eyes widened. "When did you return from the village?"

"Several minutes ago. She gave over remarkably quickly."

Bea stared at him. "What did you-? What I mean to say is-"

"What did I do to effect her rapid acquiescence? I don't quite know." He took a short breath. Her slender hand within his felt like an anchor to sanity. "She allowed me into her cottage with a great show of reluctance. I confronted her with the knowledge that she had poisoned Miss Dews, and . . ."

"And then what?"

"Then, I don't remember." He shook his head. "Moments, later it seemed, she proffered the bottle of antidote and professed her profoundest apologies for having done such a wicked deed. But as to what occurred until then, I don't know the words I spoke or the actions I took."

"You don't?" Her eyes were bright.

"Do you?"

Slowly, she nodded. Her cheeks flushed a delicate rose.

"Bea."

"Yes?"

"Did you . . . ?"

"Did I what?"

He scanned her face. "Your cheeks are glowing. You look like-"

"Like what?"

He took a hard breath. "Like you did in my bed two nights ago."

A small smile curved her lips. "I do?"

Tip's hackles rose, his fist tightening around her hand. "What did he do to you?"

The heat in her eyes sought him. "I don't believe he did anything. I know he did not, after a time."

"How do you know that?"

Her gaze remained direct. "Don't you?"

As though scalded, he released her hand. It couldn't be. Only lunatics believed in such nonsense. But a sennight ago, Tip hadn't believed in ghosts. And he recalled her fast breaths, his hand caressing her tight womanhood as though he had been inside her minutes ago. He was hard now, wanting her.

"After I spoke with Miss Minturn," -he maintained an even voice with great effort- "upon my return here, I had the oddest memory."

"A memory?"

"Of a dream, in point of fact."

"A dream?"

He sucked in a tight breath. There was no way to speak it aloud.

She glanced at their hands, separated now on the counterpane. Her look grew determined.

"You are still angry with me," she said.

"I am not."

"You are. If not, you would speak your thoughts."

"Perhaps I am." The tight ball of unease in his chest could be nothing else. But it did not control him. Despite the tearful arguments and heated reconciliations, the passionate dreams and prickly disagreements, he wanted her with a certain, constant need that had nothing of drama or excess in it, only profound, utterly staggering honesty.

"Peter?"

"I dreamt of you."

Her lips parted on another smile. "I know."

A frantic knock sounded on the bedchamber door and it swung open.

"Milord." Peg curtsied swiftly. "Miss Beatrice," she whispered. "Your mother is coming."

Tip gritted his teeth. Bearing down upon his arousal, he stood and went to the window, turning his back. Behind him, Bea climbed from the bed, straightening her gown and smoothing her hair as Lady Marstowe's maid hurried to a chair and pulled needlework from a bag.

"Beatrice, are you in here?" Lady Harriet's limp voice carried though the door in advance of her person. Draped in sky-blue garments, she swept into the room in a flurry of perfumed elegance.

"We will not hold dinner again for you tonight, Beatrice. Hello, my lord. How do you do this evening? We haven't seen you all day. Have you been out riding again? I noticed your horse in the stable when we first arrived. He has such a beautiful bay coat, like pure satin, I told Alfred. A woman would pay money for hair like that, I daresay."

Tip's gaze slued to Bea. Hers was downcast.

"Thank you, my lady," he replied.

"What on earth are you doing in my daughter's bedchamber?" she asked without any evidence of interest. "Of course, you must be seeking out Lady Marstowe's maid for her," she gestured negligently toward the servant. "I hope Beatrice has not caused you nuisance?"

He could barely release his jaw sufficient to reply. "Certainly not."

"Mama," Bea's head came up, beauty and quiet triumph radiating from her face. "Aunt Julia is well."

"She is? Well, that is to be celebrated, I suppose. Let us hope no one else catches the fever. In fact, you are looking rather peaked tonight, Beatrice."

Bea turned to the mirror on the dressing table and a secret smile creased her lips.