Or, perhaps, he had just wanted to kiss her. Finally.

After seven years?

No. That seemed too remarkable. No man had ever wanted to kiss her.

They ascended the gradual incline beneath a canopy of grand old cherries with fallen leaves crackling underfoot. When they reached the bench under the oak, the great-aunts sat to rest.

"You young ones should not halt here on our account," Aunt Julia said brightly. "The view is lovely and Grace and I will be more than happy to await your return."

"A fine idea, Aunt Julia." Thomas eagerly drew Lady Bronwyn farther up the path.

"Go along, Beatrice," Lady Marstowe ordered, gesturing after them, "and don't lose sight of them. That boy will ruin himself if he does not take care."

Bea was rather more concerned with Lady Bronwyn's ruination. Her brother was a careless fellow. He seemed enamored enough of the girl, but he had seemed the same with at least a half dozen other ladies in the past few years.

She continued along the path and Tip fell in beside her. As soon they passed out of earshot of the great-aunts, he spoke.

"Bea, I beg your pardon for my presumption last night. I hope you will forgive me."

Forgive him? She'd never slept so peacefully, filled with sweet happiness and the pleasantest tinglings.

"You are very kind to apologize." She drew in a steadying breath and told the biggest lie of her life. "But it was nothing, really."

Silence followed. She could not bring herself to look at him. If she saw relief on his face, she might actually cry.

The formal path ended at a gate set in a wall, continuing as dirt and pebbles on the opposite side as it skirted the glade. Thomas and Bronwyn went ahead, her hand tucked into his elbow.

"Lady Marstowe seems concerned that your brother is in danger from Lady Bronwyn," Tip said, as though following her thoughts.

"They are obviously quite attached." Bea folded her hands into the fall of her rose-colored gingham skirt.

"I understand she is an heiress. What could concern Lady Marstowe over such an alliance?"

Bea's heart thudded dully. He thought of marriage in such rational terms. But most everyone did, except foolish girls still in the schoolroom, and herself, of course. Her mother and father's marriage had been one of convenience, after all, although her father had adored his young, sparklingly beautiful wife. At first.

Bea cleared her throat. "We know little of Lady Bronwyn's father. Only what Mr. Whitney told Thomas. I suppose Aunt Grace is worried about that. Thomas mustn't ally himself with a questionable family."

Another long pause ensued before he spoke again.

"I know nothing of Prescot except that he is a recluse and never takes his seat in Lords. But I've spent a great deal of time in the country these past few years, of course, so I am not acquainted with everyone in town. Would you like me to send to my solicitor to inquire into him?"

Bea's gaze lifted and her steps faltered. "Oh, that will not be necessary, but you are very ki-"

"Kind, yes," he finished. A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Nevertheless, to put Lady Marstowe at ease, I will write to my solicitor today."

Bea bit the inside of her cheek and started walking again, her feet sinking into the mossy ground cover like treading on pillows. A pair of black birds darted past, twisting about each other as they flew, and a gull cawed far overhead. The autumn sea breeze rose cool and damp off the hillside into the sunshine. But Bea's chest felt heavy.

"Papa should really do this sort of thing," she finally said.

"In his absence, I am happy to."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Thank you, Peter."

Her gaze shot up. He tilted his head to glance aside at her, his mouth curving into the barest suggestion of a grin.

"We have been friends for seven years, Bea. And now I have kissed you, as well. You sound perfectly antique calling me 'my lord,' not to mention dreadfully prim."

Bea's pulse tripped. "That is a singularly ungallant thing to say," she replied to cover her shock of confused pleasure and irrational disappointment. Friends? But of course they were friends. They certainly weren't anything else.

Before she could halt her increasingly unruly tongue, she blurted out, "Do you really think I'm prim?"

He chuckled, a rich rumble of pleasure. "You sound it, occasionally."

"When I behave as propriety demands?" Perhaps pretending indignation would still the quivers in her belly.

"When you go on as though we are nearly strangers, when we are nothing of the sort." His voice continued light, but Bea's heart pounded.

Nothing of the sort.

"Not only ungallant, but ungrateful," she said as steadily as she could. "Calling you by your title is a mark of respect, of course."

He grasped her hand, encompassing it in his large, strong hold.

"Respect is all well and good, my girl, but I should think I deserve something more than that by now."

His emerald eyes above the slight smile looked intensely bright. Bea's heart wanted to explode. Her head chased after the excitement too. It spun. Stars danced before her vision, casting Tip in a cloud of glittering light.

Good heavens, the dramatic aura of the castle must be affecting her. Seeing stars now?

She wavered on her feet, abruptly unsteady. What on earth?

Heat flooded her cheeks, like a sudden fever. She tried to swallow but her mouth and throat crackled, her tongue thick. Her hand in Tip's light hold flinched, as though he crushed the bones together, the pain swiftly radiating into her arm, then her chest. She gulped air but could not seem to get enough.

"Oh, my," she mumbled. This was perhaps more than natural agitation over his attentions.

"Bea." He tightened his grasp and her hand erupted in agony. A soft yelp escaped her parched lips. Her head swam and the ground seemed to rush up to her, then back down again. Her legs gave way.

"Bea?" Tip's arms scooped behind her shoulders and knees to lift her into his embrace. But his touch became knives cutting her flesh. Her lungs seemed to compress, her chest too heavy to draw breath, as if she were being crushed by a huge press or sliced into tiny pieces.

"I-" Her throat failed, closing.

"Dear God, what's happening?" He spoke close to her face. She tried to focus on him but her vision clouded, then blackened.

"Oh, Peter, I do wish . . ." Her mind told her she spoke words, but she was not certain it was real.

Then there was nothing.

Tip stared into Bea's white face and against her inert form his own heart ceased beating. What was happening?

He strode swiftly toward the castle, cradling her to his chest. She was light in his arms.

"Cheriot!" Thomas shouted from a distance. The fort's rear gate seemed miles away. Tip struggled to order his thoughts.

Smelling salts. Women used smelling salts to revive from a swoon.

From the corner of his vision, he saw Lady Marstowe and Miss Dews move toward him. Thomas ran up, breathing hard. Tip's steps did not falter.

"What in the blazes-Oh, Lord," Thomas uttered. "Tip, my sister never swoons."

Tip didn't bother saying he knew that perfectly well, probably better than the cub did. He didn't utter aloud that her sudden collapse frightened him more than anything ever had. He didn't mention that everything he held dear in life was in his arms.

"Find smelling salts. Ask Lady Marstowe or Lady Bronwyn," he ordered. "Bring them to her bedchamber. I will take her there."

"Right." Thomas ran back toward the ladies and Tip swung through the rear portal toward the keep. He had brought this on. He refused to believe Iversly's threat about the castle boundaries, and he had taken her beyond the acceptable border for a maiden. It had to be. Now she dangled limp in his embrace, horrifyingly still. Tip had dreamed thousands of times of having his arms around her, of holding her beautiful body, her living, breathing person. Of her returning his embrace.

This was a nightmare, and he was to blame. He was an arrogant ass, unwilling to believe what he could not see himself. When her eyes sparked in the breakfast room, he could have sworn she knew his purpose in suggesting the stroll. But it didn't matter. He should have protected her, not put her in the way of danger to test his theory.

Her sweet lips were gray, her eyelids translucent over motionless eyes. Dear God, where had his lovely girl gone?

He took the steep stairs two at a time, accessing the landing quickly and pushing through the door.

In earlier years, when he was first infatuated with her, he'd spent plenty of puerile imaginings on being with her in a bedchamber. Now her neatly made bed was not an invitation to pleasure but of grave necessity. He laid her down and sat beside her, taking her hands between his.

Her skin was cold, her breathing so shallow he could barely discern the rise and fall of her chest. He touched his fingertips to her neck. Her pulse beat slow and thin. A shiver of dread cut through his chest.

He had never imagined losing her. For years she had been his steady, stable reality. Even miles away from her for months on end, he had rested content in the knowledge that all he need do was mount his horse and ride a day or two to reach her, to see her pacific smile and hear her soft voice, and all would be well. He would be well.

Blast it, where in the hell were those smelling salts?

He grabbed up a coverlet and spread it over her, then went to the hearth and relit the fire. Boot steps sounded at the threshold. Thomas entered, Lady Bronwyn and the great-aunts on his heels.

"Smelling salts here!" Thomas brandished a tiny vial. Lady Marstowe snatched it from him and marched to the bed.

"Beatrice," she said firmly, "you will not begin taking after your silly mother at this late date. You are far too sensible for that." She uncorked the vial and with a flick of her wrist passed it beneath Bea's nostrils.

No one in the chamber breathed.

Bea did not stir.

"Oh, Lord," Thomas uttered. "It's real. Iversly told us the truth." His horrified gaze went to Lady Bronwyn.

Tip moved to the bed, his heart galloping.

The dowager shook her head as though rejecting the evidence, then jammed the smelling salts beneath Bea's nostrils, holding them steady there this time. The unconscious woman made no reaction.

Lady Marstowe turned her icy gaze on Tip. "What happened, Lord Cheriot?"

"They passed beyond the boundaries of the castle grounds," Lady Bronwyn whispered.

Tip's gaze was glued to Bea. "I believe Lady Bronwyn is correct, but I cannot say for certain."

"Of course you can," Thomas exploded. "We told you-"

"Thomas, that is enough," Lady Marstowe commanded. "What are we to do now?"

"Call for a doctor, I should say," Thomas spluttered.

"Speak to Iversly." Tip's gaze shot to Lady Bronwyn. "Is he here? Now?"

She glanced around the small chamber. Her agitated gaze returned to him. She shook her head.

He strode toward the door. "I will find him."

"Lady Bronwyn," the dowager intoned, "remain here with my sister and see to Beatrice. If she moves or worsens, alert us immediately. Thomas, come. You are useless here, but you may help us root out Lord Iversly."

Tip went straight to the parlor, the other two following.

"Iversly," he called out, moving through the door.

No answer came.

"Well this is dashed inconvenient," Thomas cursed. "He ought to be here. Isn't this what he wants, after all?"

"He wants a living woman," Tip snapped, swallowing over the break in his voice.

Lady Marstowe cut him a swift look, then peered around the chamber. "Lord Iversly, reveal yourself now."

"He won't come, Aunt Grace. Cheriot's right. He doesn't want Bea. He wants Lady Bronwyn."

"Then why-" Tip caught his tongue. He could not control the steadiness of his words. He pivoted toward the door.

"Where are you going, my lord?" the dowager demanded.

"Where I must," he growled and left them behind. If Iversly would not reveal himself here, Tip would try his bedchamber, where the ghost had spoken to him last night. Then every other crevice of the castle until he found him. He headed for the stairs.

"She may not recover."

The ice-cold words hit him like a battering ram. Tip stopped short and swung around.

"Where are you?" he ground out.

"Here."

The corridor shone with early morning sunlight filtering through a trio of windows onto gray stone, softening the severe architecture.

"If I could see you, I would kill you."