There was a silence. Kylemore must have noted and understood how firmly she was now locked away from him. He might possess her body, but the real Verity was as inaccessible as the moons of Jupiter.

She heard him sigh. Then he began to move within her, slow strokes as powerful and endless as the tide. After a few seconds, he reached out and raised her knees so his penetration went deeper, surer.

She could have told him it didn't matter. She was isolated in her inviolable sanctum.

Except her cold black center was neither as cold nor as black as she longed for it to be. She was too aware of his scent and the evocative sounds of his body moving in hers. She closed her eyes more tightly and clutched her inner bastion.

Kylemore's heat beckoned to her. It took all her willpower to keep herself from sliding against him, answering that rhythmic rocking of his body with her own warmth.

A moan escaped her. She wanted it to be a furious protest, but it emerged as a mew of pleasure. To stop herself reaching for him, she fisted her hands into the rumpled sheet beneath her.

"Open your eyes, Verity." His low voice teased across nerves raw with sensual excitement. "Open your eyes."

"No," she said stubbornly, knowing any surrender, however small, would lead to ultimate defeat. She turned her head away to deny the almost overwhelming temptation to obey him.

"Open your eyes." When that had no effect, he continued almost dreamily, "I can keep going all night, you know."

She whipped her head around and met his gaze. It was dark and intent and steady. She couldn't doubt he meant what he said.

Her lips parted on a wordless sob. She couldn't keep fighting him. As if to underline that thought, her inner muscles clenched to draw him deeper.

This time, he was the one to close his eyes, and his sigh was a longaah of appreciation. He dropped down against her and rubbed his beard-roughened cheek upon hers in a gesture almost more intimate than the sex itself.

Against her will, she arched into him, her breasts brushing the hair on his chest. He reached down to stroke between her legs. No deceiving herself this time that her cry conveyed anything but pleasure.

With a broken exhalation of defeat, she began to move with him in the heady dance of passion. As she rose to meet his next thrust, she heard him give a low growl of triumph.

And why not? What price her defiance and hatred now?

But the thought was distant, unrelated to the climbing spiral of tension inside her, tension that built higher with every thrust of his powerful body into hers. She twined trembling arms around him and threw her head back as the storm within her gathered.

By now, Kylemore's inhuman control faltered. His slow, powerful pace changed, became faster, more relentless. She hardly noticed. Her own response rose, tightening her muscles, compelling her to cling to him even as he drove into her for the last time.

She broke in his arms on a peak higher, purer, more distressing than anything she'd ever known before. Kylemore's groan of release underscored the shockingly exquisite turbulence. Her body leaped greedily to devour every second of rapture, every ravishing sensation.

He flung her up to fly free among the stars. While her heart lingered behind to grieve.

When some shred of control returned, tears dried on Verity's cheeks. She clasped Kylemore as if she'd die before she let him go. His rough breathing warmed her ear.

She had no idea what that fiery encounter had meant to him apart from providing yet more evidence that physically, she had no defenses against him.

Their lovemaking had turned her every hope to ashes.

In spite of her bravery and determination, he'd required a mere two days to have her panting and begging in his arms.

Two days.

How he must laugh. How he must gloat over his quick victory. Soraya had held her own against him for a year. But Verity, with so many more reasons to deny him, had crumbled before half a week was out.

Although she knew it was too late for any pretense of distaste or reluctance, she unwound her arms from his back.

He raised himself so he could see her.

She searched his face for triumph, but he looked as shaken as she felt. Or perhaps her own reaction was so overwhelming that she imagined she saw its reflection in him. Her body quaked with after-tremors, and the memory of mind-shattering bliss ran sluggishly in her veins.

"I hate you," she said clearly.

Something flickered in his eyes, but she was too tired and heartsick to try and read it. He lifted himself off her, then, surprisingly, left the bed.

"It doesn't matter," he said flatly, bending to pick up his scattered clothes.

He was right. It didn't. He'd already demonstrated that by proving she was as vulnerable to him as she'd ever been.

More.

She stared up at the heavy beams that crossed the whitewashed ceiling and told herself she wouldn't cry. Although more tears couldn't worsen her humiliation.

The door opened, then shut behind him.

It was much, much later and she'd fallen into a disturbed sleep when the first tortured cry woke her.

Chapter 12.

At first, Verity thought that the strangled sound was part of her confused dreams, but as she raised eyelids still heavy and swollen with tears, the cry came again.

Somewhere in the house, a man called out in inconsolable agony.

One of the servants must be troubled or sick, although she'd thought that all the people in the valley, apart from Kylemore and herself, slept in the cottages.

Without consciously deciding to act, she was on her feet and pulling on the first piece of clothing her hand lighted on in the armoire-a silk robe. Habits instilled through years of looking after her brother and sister had never left her. She couldn't ignore the terrible need in those hoarse screams.

Fumbling, she lit a candle, then let herself out of the room. She paused in the hallway, unsure which direction to take.

The man cried out again, a long keen that faded away into broken sobs. It came from down the corridor. Clutching the robe around her naked body, she went toward the room where she'd sought refuge from the duke last night.

She quietly pushed open the door to the simple chamber with its narrow bed only to discover no servant broke the silence of the night.

Instead, it was the Duke of Kylemore.

She stood in the doorway as hatred rose in a black tide to choke her. Nightmares should plague a man with such evil on his soul. In any just universe, he'd never enjoy a peaceful moment. No other revenge lay open to her, but at least knowing he battled night demons was something.

The long, lean body in the bed thrashed wildly, as if he fought some invisible assailant. Twisted sheets tangled around him, mute testimony to his struggles. His chest was bare, and sweat shimmered on his white skin under the light covering of black hair.

The duke had bad dreams. What was it to her? He'd kidnapped and abused her. His conscienceshould trouble him.

She turned to go. Let him rot in his misery. Let pains in this world give him a foretaste of the pains of hell that surely awaited him.

Behind her, he gave a low moan. She paused, not wanting to hear the bone-deep grief in the sound but unable to help herself.

She straightened her spine. No, she must be ruthless, as Kylemore was ruthless. Her fear and entreaties and resistance had never kept him from taking what he wanted. So why should she care if his sins returned to haunt his sleep?

Her enemy's agony was her only vengeance.

He writhed again in the grip of his dream, so violently that the bed creaked loudly in the small room. She tried to rejoice in his anguish, but something stronger than her futile dreams of retribution prevented her leaving.

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned back.

This time, she couldn't help edging closer. He'd rolled to lie spread-eagled on his back, braced for imaginary attack. She told herself she wanted to luxuriate in his distress while he was too lost in his fantasies to threaten her.

But when the light of her candle spilled across the sleeping duke-for all his turmoil, he was still fast asleep-she didn't feel remotely like laughing.

No trace now of the supercilious aristocrat she'd known in London, or even the ruthless tyrant who had abducted her. Instead, the man stretched out before her was tormented to the edge of sanity.

He tossed his head with its sweat-dampened dark hair from side to side as if in violent denial. His breathing was loud, and his powerful chest heaved with each difficult inhalation.

In spite of everything he'd done to her, in spite of how shewanted to react, Verity's heart contracted with pity. She couldn't abandon any fellow creature, however despicable, to suffer as the duke so obviously suffered.

"Your Grace," she said softly, leaning over and hesitantly touching his bare shoulder.

The smooth skin was clammy beneath her hand. Some monumental crisis gripped him.

"Your Grace, you're having a bad dream. Wake up."

He jerked away as though her touch scorched him. The marks of tears on his cheeks shocked her. He was still deeply asleep, lost in his nightmare.

She curled her fingers around his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. "Your Grace, wake up."

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist as the gentian eyes opened wide. For one startled moment, he looked up at her through that hazy blue like a lost child. She had another sudden vision of the little boy he must once have been.

All the while, his adult strength crushed her fragile wrist.

"Who is it?" he grated out, his gaze blind.

She doubted he was actually awake. The dream still dug its claws into him.

"Kylemore, it's me." She tried to break away, cursing herself for her stupidity in venturing so close. Did she never learn?

He didn't seem to hear her as he inexorably dragged her toward him. When he forced her to bend over him, her unbound hair tumbled forward to pool on his naked chest.

"Who is it?" he asked again.

"It's Verity."

The room was silent except for his ragged breathing. Hesitantly, he brought up his free hand to tangle in her hair. The gesture was almost tender.

"Black silk," he said in husky wonder. Then more sharply, "Verity? Is that you?"

"You're hurting my hand, Kylemore," she said firmly, hoping to disperse the miasma in his mind.

His dazed glance fell to where he gripped her with such bruising force. "Your pardon."

He immediately freed her. She should seize this reprieve and flee to her room, but still she didn't go.

He pushed himself upright against the pillows and looked around as if unsure exactly where he was. "Verity," he said in a more normal tone. "What are you doing here?"

She rubbed her sore wrist. "You called out in your sleep. I came to see if you were all right."

"Just a bad dream," he said with a carelessness she knew better than to believe.

It had been more than just a bad dream. His terrifying distress still echoed in her ears. And he'd cried. She wouldn't have thought the heartless duke capable of tears, but tonight proved her wrong.

"Go back to bed." He spoke as though dismissing a servant in his grand London house. "I promise not to disturb your rest further."

She couldn't ignore this reprieve. She should be relieved he was sending her away unscathed apart from a few bruises.

With every second, he returned to his usual self. And Kylemore's usual self was dangerous, as she knew to her cost. She retrieved her candle and began to sidle out of the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried not to notice how his hand shook when he raised it to brush his hair back from his face.

He didn't look at her. "Good night."

"Good night, then," she said, telling herself she imagined the bereft note in his voice.

At the door, she impulsively looked back and caught the naked desolation on his fine-boned face. He sat up as if he meant to watch out the rest of the night.

For once, the shell of his self-confidence had cracked, and she saw him more clearly than ever before. Exhaustion marked his face-she suddenly wondered if he'd slept at all since they'd arrived in the valley-and the beautiful mouth was taut with anguish.

Cursing herself for being every variety of fool, she returned to stand beside the bed. "Can I get Your Grace anything? A glass of wine? Something from the kitchen?"

He focused those bleak indigo eyes on her, and she struggled not to recognize a loneliness as strong as her own.

"No," he said.

"Very well."

But as she turned once more to leave, he reached out and snatched for her hand. "Yes. Yes, stay." His voice was harsh, turning what should have been a plea into a command.

"Your Grace, I..." If she crawled between the sheets, she was all too aware what he'd do.

He must have read the refusal in her face, because he dropped her hand and looked past her with an attempt at his usual hauteur. "Of course you must go."

Ridiculous to be moved by his foolish pride. She reminded herself he plotted her destruction. But at the moment, it was difficult to think of him as the unrelenting, omnipotent Duke of Kylemore. If anything, he reminded her of Ben, who as a child had always been quickest to deny he wanted comfort just when he needed it most.

But he wasn't Ben. He was the man who contrived to make her his slave. He was the man who, only hours ago, had come close to achieving that end. She was mad to pretend that a troubled, grieving Kylemore wasn't as perilous to her as his daytime self ever was. Perhaps even more perilous.