She clung. "No-well, a little. I didn't know what was going on-I didn't know our grooms were armed or that it was they who had shot. I thought we were being shot at!"

Gyles tightened his hold, rocked her slightly, laid his cheek against her hair. "It's all right. Nothing came of it." Thank God. "I'm afraid such occurrences are not unheard of, which is why I ordered John to take two grooms. At this time of year with the wealthy leaving London, the outskirts of the capital provide the richest pickings."

But highwaymen usually waylaid travelers at night, or at least in the evening. Broad daylight was too risky.

Francesca eased back. "I must go and change. I think I'll take a long bath."

Her liking for relaxing baths had not escaped Gyles. He released her. "We're dining in tonight, aren't we?"

"Yes. The roundabout is slowing, so it'll just be the two of us." She opened her eyes at him. "Will you be bored?" Gyles raised a brow. "You'll have to see to it I'm not."

"Ah-the duties of your countess." With a die-away air, she curtsied and turned to the door. "I'll go and fortify myself." Gyles laughed. The door closed behind her; his laughter faded. He returned to his desk.

She'd said she valued honesty-that she wanted honesty from him. When, after dinner, they entered the library, Gyles considered the truth, considered how much he could bring himself to reveal. Considered why it was necessary.

Francesca headed for the desk and his latest list of references. He caught her hand. "No."

She turned to him, brows rising. He gestured to the chaise. "Let's sit. I want to talk to you."

Intrigued, she sat nearer the fire. He sat beside her. The fire was roaring; Wallace had built it up while they'd dined.

Better not to think too much. Better just to ride into battle like his forebears and expect to win.

He shifted his gaze from the fire to her eyes, from crackling flames to vibrant green. "We appear to have a problem. Things-odd things-have been happening. I accept that there's no reason to imagine they're intentional"-he blocked out the vision of the rein tied across the track-"yet... I can't help but be concerned."

Silk shushed as she faced him. "You mean the highwaymen? But you said such things are expected."

"Not quite expected, and not occurring like that. In daylight, no pistols waving, and"-his gaze locked with hers-"the carriage was driving into London, not out."

"But it must have been... well, an accident that my carriage was attacked."

"Must have been." Gyles felt his face harden. "Like that incident with your special dressing-it must have been an accident. Yet..."

She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. "Yet what?"

"What if it wasn't." He took her hand, simply held it, felt its warmth in his. "What if, for some reason we can't at present fathom, someone has designs on your life?"

If it hadn't been for his tone and the expression in his eyes, Francesca might have smiled. Instead, remembering the father he'd lost, imagining what she hoped she now meant to him, she curled her fingers and gripped his. "No one has designs on my life. There's no reason anyone would seek to harm me. As far as I know, I have no enemies."

He looked down at their twined hands. After a moment, he returned the pressure of her fingers. "Be that as it may, that's not, of itself, the problem I alluded to."

She tried to see his eyes, but he continued to look at their linked hands.

"Our problem, one we need to discuss and come to some agreement over"-he glanced up-"is my concern."

The veils started to shimmer, to lift. It wasn't, she'd discovered, normal practice for John Coachman to take one groom, let alone two fully armed. She held Gyles's gaze. "Tell me of this concern."

Not a demand, an encouragement.

He exhaled. "It's not... comfortable." His gaze shifted to the fire. A moment passed, then he looked into her eyes. "Since we first met, whenever you're in danger-whatever sort of danger, imagined or real, whether I'm with you or not-I feel..." He looked inward, then refocused on her eyes. "I can't describe it-black, icy cold, painful but not physically. A different sort of pain." He hesitated, then added, "A hellish fear."

She returned his gaze, gripped his fingers more tightly.

"If I'm with you, it's not so bad-I can do something-save you, and all ends well. But if I'm not there, yet believe you're in danger-" He looked away. After a moment, he drew in a long breath and turned back to her. "Can you understand?"

She comforted him with her eyes, pressed his hand. "Is that why you placed so many guards on me at the Castle?"

He laughed, short and harsh. "Yes." He rose, and she let him draw his hand from hers, watched as he paced to the hearth, braced one clenched fist on the mantelpiece and stared down at the flames. "If I can't be with you, then I feel compelled to do everything I can, to give you every guard I can-to protect you in any way I can." An instant later, he added, "It's not something I can make a rational decision about. It's something I must do."

She rose, went to him. "If that's so, then..." She shrugged and touched his arm. "I will bear with the guards-it's no great matter."

He shot her a hard glance. "You don't like footmen dogging your every step."

"Nor do I like my maid spending half her day in my room, simply to watch over my things. However, if it will bring you ease, then"-she stepped closer, raising her face to his, speaking directly to his cloudy grey eyes-"I won't let it annoy me. I won't like it, but I don't care about such things-" She paused, held his gaze. "As much as I care for you."

Exultation clashed with something more primitive, with the fear that lingered never far from his mind. For one instant, Gyles felt giddy, then he straightened. "You'll accept whatever guards I assign?"

"As long as you tell me of them, so I'm not surprised to see them." Green eyes met his; her brows rose.

He grimaced. "A maid will always be in your room, and a footman will always be with you-in sight of you within the house, within reach outside it."

"Unless I'm with you."

He inclined his head. "And if you go walking anywhere, two footmen will accompany you."

"Anything else?"

"John will take an extra groom when he drives you."

Francesca waited, then asked, "Nothing more?"

He thought before shaking his head.

"Very well." She drew his head down and kissed him. "I will bear with your guards, my lord. And now"-she turned and headed for the door-"I'm going upstairs to dismiss any maids hovering in my room." She glanced back at him. "Will you be long?"

He hesitated, but didn't look at his desk. "No. I'll be up shortly."

Smiling, she opened the door and left him.

As she climbed the stairs, she thought over all he'd said, over all the incidents he might construe as dangerous.

The memory of hands grabbing at her in the crowd last night returned. She was almost sure there'd been more than one set-more than one man. Man? Yes, she was sure of that-the hands had been large and clumsy. And rough-not the smooth hands of a gentleman.

Should she mention it? To what purpose, other than to prod an emotion Gyles clearly didn't appreciate feeling?

She didn't believe there was any danger-accidents happened. People in crowds grabbed at each other to steady themselves. No one wished her ill. But she'd seen how deeply the very notion affected Gyles. Real or imagined-he'd admitted it made no odds.

Bearing with guards was a small thing to do; she would do it gladly. It was impossible not to feel touched by his concern, impossible not to feel cherished, no matter the price.