She hurried back the way they'd come, the voices becoming louder. If this was a gothic novel, there'd be a spy hole into that great hall. Crag Wyvern felt all too much like the deranged creation of a gothic novelist, so she began to hunt for one. She concentrated on the inner wall, running a hand along the rough surface. Then she paused. It wasn't stone-cold.

She tapped. It wasn't stone at all, but wood painted to imitate stone. Folly and deception all around her! She would not let such idiocy come between her and the man she loved.

She continued on and found what she was looking for. It wasn't exactly a spy hole, for it was a vertical slit, showing only a sliver of the great hall. It was a listening hole. When she turned her ear to it, she could hear the men quite clearly.

"Of course I give you permission," David was saying. No, the tone was all earl-distant courtesy and palpable boredom. "Though I consider filling in a cave a waste of the government's money."

"Not if it stops the wretches stashing goods there, my lord. There was clear evidence of use." A Welsh accent, so probably Lloyd.

The topic was smugglers and she guessed Lloyd was the uniformed one and a Preventive officer. He wanted to fill in a cave so it couldn't be used to hide contraband.

"The coast is riddled with caves," David said. "But I haven't objected."

The tone clearly said, Why are you lingering? She couldn't believe David could be so openly discourteous to a man who was doing his legal duty.

"You don't take great interest in trouncing the smugglers, my lord. But down Purbeck way a group of them treated a gentlewoman most foully because her husband objected to the use of his horses in a run."

"I heard nothing of it."

"You've been away, my lord, and it's been kept quiet for the sake of the lady, but it happened, and now no one there will whisper a word."

"Most regrettable, but Purbeck is far beyond my authority."

"What happens there could happen here, my lord, if the wretches aren't suppressed."

"Pray, what do you suggest I do?"

"Tell me who Captain Drake is."

A silence made Lucy want to tear open the wall to see what was happening, but then David said, "The deuce, man, you're obsessed with Captain Drake! Have you considered that it might be a moveable ident.i.ty?"

"Upon one's death or removal, yes, my lord. Melchisadeck Clyst was Captain Drake here for many years. We know that. Now there's a new one. We know that, too."

"Or a number of them. And is it not possible that whoever he or they may be, Captain Drake is controlling the smugglers in this area to avoid cruelty and mayhem?"

"He, or they, is still a criminal and it is my duty to put a stop to him."

"Haven't you heard of the Hydra, Lloyd?"

"Cut off one head and two appear in its place? Logic tells us that any creature must exhaust the possibility in time."

"What the devil does logic have to do with mythology?"

"We live in an age of reason, my lord, where there are no Hydras-or dragons. It's my duty to stop smuggling hereabouts and I will do so, by any means."

It sounded like a direct challenge, foolhardy man.

"I'm sure you'll do your best," David said, his voice icily cold.

Even in the silence Lucy could hear the Welshman's fuming frustration. "I will, my lord."

"As is your duty. If there's nothing more, Lloyd, I have pressing matters to attend to."

Gritted teeth lay behind Lloyd's "Good day, my lord," and anger spoke in the click of his booted feet on the stone floor, and the near slam of the door.

Lucy continued to listen, wondering if the other man they'd seen approaching was there and might speak.

Silence.

She realized that David could be coming back to her. She ran back along the corridor and into the circular room, afraid that he might realize she'd overheard.

Afraid?

Why would overhearing that conversation put her in danger? The Preventive officer was seeking the earl's help in suppressing smuggling, and clearly not for the first time. David had permitted the filling in of a cave, but otherwise been uncooperative. He'd made no secret of thinking action against smugglers a waste of time and money.

She was allowing the gothic horrors of this place to overturn her mind.

She hitched up to sit on the bed, but her mind circled the conversation like the dragon circling the room.

Then she shifted because of the journal in her pocket. She'd carried it there all the way from London but not written a word.

She took it and her pencil out.

I'm in Crag Wyvern, And it's just as horrid as said.

But we kissed, and nothing can be dark.

David clashed with the officer Whose duty it is to end The Freetrade here.

As if they truly were enemies . . .

Lloyd had said the Hydra was mythological, but added that dragons were, too. A dangerously impertinent jab at a n.o.bleman who's t.i.tle was a dragon's name. Proof of his anger. She should be in sympathy with him. But not when his opponent was David.

Ah.

David is the son of Captain Drake.

Though he was raised by his Aunt and uncle, that must count For something.

The current Captain Drake is probably A friend or even a relative. Of course He won't betray him.

"What are you doing?"

She hadn't even heard the door open.

Lucy said the only thing she could. "Writing poetry."

"Is there no end to your talents?"

It wasn't friendly and might even be suspicious.

"Bad poetry," she said, turning the book so he could see the page, hoping he wasn't eagle-eyed. Then she shut it. "Don't ask me to read any to you."

He shook his head. "You are designed to tangle a man in knots."

"Not normal men. Who were your guests?"

"Guest. One man was my secretary, the other the local Preventive officer."

"Come to discuss ways to put an end to smuggling, I a.s.sume."

"You can a.s.sume what you wish."

That kiss might not have happened. Except that it fueled everything they said.

"Stop trying to pick a fight. My lord earl, will you marry me?"

"You have no sense of propriety at all."

"Sense and propriety are rarely connected. Why shouldn't women propose marriage to men? Why shouldn't they call out men or women who offend them? Why shouldn't young unmarried ladies sleep alone?"

"I have no idea," he said, staring at her.

"Why shouldn't they have short hair, or marry men ten years their junior? I mean, when older."

A laugh escaped. "I a.s.sume you're talking sense."

"You do? Why?"

"Because you always do."

"Then believe me when I say we are meant to be."

She slithered forward to get off the bed and walked toward him. "Gems of my aunt's dictates about propriety. She said that you'd fled London because we'd behaved improperly in that theater stairwell. That a gentleman would have to wonder whether such a lady would be a chaste wife."

"A gentleman would merely hope that the lady would be as improper as a wife."

"Why wouldn't she be?" Lucy asked, reaching him, putting a hand on his chest, working it up to the open vee of his shirt, to his skin.

He trapped her hand there. "Lucy . . ."

"A lady might wonder if a gentleman who left without a word would be a constant husband."

"Perhaps she should." But his voice was husky and his eyes dark. "Lucy . . ."

"Yes?" She took hold of his shirt and pulled him with her, backward toward the bed. Once there, she turned with him and pushed him so his hips were against it, as they had been that night in her room.

"A better height, as I remember." She moved closer. "Yes, it is, isn't it? Stairs, beds, all kinds of devices for a tall gentleman and a sadly short lady."

He gripped her waist. "There's nothing sad about you."

"I do hope not. Not now, not ever."

She pressed forward and came fully against him, and against the hard evidence that his blood ran as hot as hers. How could it not? There was one sure way to cut through all the knots.

Her mother's way.

Lucy put her lips to his. Instant fire pressed her closer, closer. She climbed over him so that he collapsed back on the bed, conquered, and she ravished him as best she could.

He rolled with her, crushed her under him.

Glorious weight and pulsing hunger.

Before he could hesitate, she kissed him again, pulling at his shirt to get her hands on his hot skin. His hand on her leg, under skirts and petticoats, his mouth hot on her neck, her shoulder.

He sat back and she thought she'd lost, but then he pulled at the front fastenings of her gown. Laughing, she brushed away his fumbling hands and untied laces so it fell open. Her light corset unhooked down the front and then only her simple shift covered her. She untied the lace that ran around the neckline so it hung loosely, exposing her.

His eyes never leaving her, he stripped off his own coat and waistcoat. He fell on her again, cradling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, kissing, nipping, murmuring her name over and over. She lay back, arms wide, allowing him, reveling in the breathless ecstasy, laughing with it.

He laughed with her, but said, "We shouldn't. Stop me, Lucy. Have sense."

That made her laugh even more. She sat up to drag his shirt off him, to run her hands all over his magnificent chest. "What has sense to do with this?"

She pushed him down on the circular bed. "No top, no bottom. No beginning, no end. Aren't circles wonderful?"

"Ouroborus," he gasped-she'd straddled him. "Symbol of eternity."

"Perfect." She kissed him again, searingly aware of him hard, so close to where she wanted him to be. Needed him to be, as she needed air to breathe.

She rolled off the bed, tossed off her shift, and then untied the laces so she could step out of her pantaloons beneath. The look in his eyes was all she could want and more and she smiled.

"G.o.ddess," he said huskily, struggling out of his remaining clothes. One boot hit the wall. "But G.o.ddess of what I have no idea. No scheming Greek or Roman you." Naked, he said, "Nicholas would know."

She chuckled. "A wise man, Nicholas Delaney."

"I'm going to throttle him. Come here."

Lucy remembered the night in her bedroom, him saying, "Come here, wench." Feeling like a wench.

Now she felt like a G.o.ddess.

"Something from the East," she said, sauntering slowly back. "From India. I've seen astonishing statues and paintings."

"You're a ruined woman."

I hope so, she thought and crawled up onto the bed. He was sitting back on his heels and one picture made sense to her. She straddled him, straddled his long, thick manhood. "There was one like this."

His eyes closed and he inhaled, but he opened them to say, "Not quite."