She blinked, thought about that, thought about how it would feel if he stopped his stimulation of her at that critical instant, and she found she could sympathize with his aversion. "Yes," she said, crawling back across the sheets toward him as he held out a hand in invitation. "I think I understand."

He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.

"Should it fail, know that I would never abandon any child of mine." His declaration poured through her heart.

In his eyes, she read the truth. He had protected her to the best of his ability, and should that fail, he would not abandon her, pregnant and alone. She had seen him with Nicky, knew how desperately he loved his son. He would never desert his own child. On some level, she had known that all along. Perhaps that knowledge had influenced her decision, lending her rea.s.surance.

Anthony would not abandon her if she became pregnant, casting her into the same cruel world that had spurned her and belittled her all her life. He would never send his child to face the uncertainty of such a fate.

"Thank you," she whispered, unable to say more, to explain how much his actions meant to her.

He looked startled, opened his mouth to speak, but she did not want to talk any more. Not of this. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his, emptying the emotions of her heart into him. Yet, a tiny seedling of insecurity sprouted within her. He would never abandon the pregnant mother of his child, but once such a child was born, would he then send her away? I would never abandon any child of mine. But what of her? Would he abandon her?

His mouth was warm on hers, and she let his heat wash away the cold uncertainty that taunted her. With a soft moan, she kissed him harder, deeper, opening her mouth to welcome him.

"Do not tempt me, sweet Emma. You need time to recuperate."

She snuggled against his side and he drew the covers over them, coc.o.o.ning them in his great bed. Listening to the sound of his breathing, inhaling the scent of his skin, Emma wanted to purr with contentment.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable and secure. At length he spoke.

"I should have told you earlier, Emma. I leave in the morning." His tone held a hint of regret.

"Leave?" She jerked upright, staring down at him in confusion. "But...that is...oh!" Words failed her. She had no claim on his time, no right to question his comings and goings. Nonetheless, she felt betrayed and hurt, confused by his surprising p.r.o.nouncement.

He pulled her back into the shelter of his arms, kissing her brow tenderly.

"Three days, Emma. I must visit someone. My stepmother rarely asks anything of me, and this I cannot deny her. The arrangement was made months ago. Two days' travel, one there, one back, and a day to deal with the matter at hand."

His explanation softened the blow. He had not owed her one, and the fact that he offered it was comforting somehow.

"Is Nicky to go as well?"

"No," he replied. "Nicky stays with you."

He trailed the back of his hand along her jaw, her neck, the valley between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Mmm. Perhaps I could take you with me."

Once more she bolted to a sitting position.

"That would hardly be proper. One does not take one's paramour on family business," she stated primly, looking at him the way she would look at Nicky if she caught him with his fingers in the cookie jar. "I think I can survive for three days without you."

"Absolutely. It would be improper to take you there," he said, his expression somber. Then with a grin, he dragged her down and rolled until he had her beneath him. "But not improper to take you here."

He kissed her. Something inside her unfurled, gently at first, then stronger. Kiss him. Stroke him. Touch every lovely muscled plain and valley. Rub your body against his. Yesss. Like that.

Her response drew a low groan from his throat.

"I thought you said I needed time. To recuperate." She laughed, but the sound dissolved into a moan as he caressed her.

"Now seems like a very good time," he murmured against her mouth, then turned her so she lay face down, her back to his front. As he pushed into her, slowly, hot and slick, she gasped and arched her back to take him deeper still, her hands fisting in the covers, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and she let herself fall into the dark rich pleasure of him.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Tick - tick - tick. Turning her head, Emma found the source of the sound. A small bra.s.s clock stood on Anthony's bedside table. The sight of it brought a tinge of sadness to the pleasurable haze that yet surrounded her, reminding her that time would plod on regardless, its pa.s.sage steadfast and firm. Wistfully, she wished she could halt that pa.s.sage and freeze it in this perfect moment.

She leaned forward and kissed Anthony's mouth, then turned her head and brushed her lips across his maimed finger.

He drew a startled breath.

"Does it pain you?" she asked.

"No."

"Mrs. Bolifer told me you injured yourself the day you...the day you..." She hesitated, unsure what wording to choose.

"Lopped off her arm?" he finished dryly. "'Tis the phraseology she herself chose. For the shock value, I suspect."

"Yes, I suppose you are right." She took his maimed hand and sandwiched it between her own.

"Why do you no longer practice medicine?"

He gave no answer and the silence stretched taut between them. Emma looked up to find his gaze shuttered.

"Tell me. Please," she whispered. "I so long to know you."

"I would say you now know me very well indeed."

His answer near broke her heart. He had shared his body with her in both rough pa.s.sion and gentle caress, but he would share no part of his secret soul. The barrier of his reticence held her at bay, bringing a tinge of sadness to her mood.

He caressed the line of her jaw with his free hand, letting his fingers slide along the column of her neck, and lower to the swell of her breast.

At her stern "governess" look, he smiled.

"You could help many with your healing skills," she pressed, driven by her own dark memories, her recollection of her mother's horrific death, her body ravaged by smallpox. There had been no coin to pay the physician after that first wasteful visit, and even if she had been wealthy as a queen, 'twould not likely have changed the outcome. Emma swallowed. He could help many, but not all. Was that the reason, then? Because he could not save everyone? Delia's diary claimed he had once ministered to the needy, the poor. Why had he stopped?

"You choose to go to the village only for the blood of the dead," she continued. "Why, Anthony?"

He gave her a sharp look, but made no answer. She rolled up onto his chest, hoping to glimpse his thoughts. Something dark and cold flickered in his gaze, a shadow that was discernible even in the dim light.

"Answer me. Please." She needed to know. Somehow, she needed to piece together the puzzle of Anthony Craven.

"Leave it, Emma. Perhaps some day I shall bare my soul to you, dark as it is. But not today."

Closing his arms around her, he settled her head against his shoulder, effectively terminating her searching look. They lay thus, wrapped in soft sheets and the afterglow of recent pa.s.sion, but an undercurrent pulsed and writhed. Its presence, however subtle, was unmistakable.

"I cannot," she whispered, nuzzling into the place where his neck met his shoulder, her words m.u.f.fled against his skin. "I cannot leave it at that. You are a part of me now. I think that your joy is my joy. Your pain, my pain."

Anthony sat up so abruptly that Emma tumbled back into the sheets and gave a small cry of alarm.

"No," he said fiercely, his fingers curling around her shoulders, his eyes glittering in the dim light as he loomed over her. "Emma, do not lose yourself in me. Do not bear my burdens as your own." His voice was raw. "You will be pulled in, destroyed. There is a darkness to my soul that I cannot, will not, explain to you. Remember what I offered you."

"Nothing. You offered me nothing." As she said the words, a flicker of concern sparked inside her, a twinge that made her wonder if she had chosen a path that could only lead to heartbreak. She pushed the thought aside. Though she was a woman of little experience, she intuitively recognized emotion in the touch of his hand, in his interest in her pleasure. She smiled and ran her fingertips across his lips. "But you care for me."

His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "Yes, I care for you," he rasped, the words dragged from him by unseen forces, an undeniable truth that overcame his reserve.

"Anthony," she whispered. And then she laughed, climbing atop him, her heart soaring free as she straddled him. Impishly, she kissed his mouth, his neck, his muscled chest, her hand sliding along his ridged belly as she wriggled along the length of him, lower, and lower still, until the hot, smooth jut of his erection teased her.

With a low growl, he rolled her beneath him, reached out, dragged open the drawer of the night table, and pulled forth a sheath. His mouth was hot on her neck as he kissed her, licked her, nipped at the tender skin then ran his tongue over the spot to ease the sting. He shifted, took her mouth in a hot, deep kiss that stole her thoughts, stole her soul. Nay, not stole. She gave it all, and willingly. His mouth opened over hers, and she moaned, wrapping her arms tight around him, pulling him close.

"I like to hear your pleasure," he whispered, running his fingers over her taut nipples, pinching them lightly until she gasped her delight. "I like to feel your body soft and yeilding beneath mine, to hear your gasp as I push inside you."

Matching action to word, he thrust into her, and she did gasp, and then moan, arching to meet each luscious thrust, her body instinctively searching for release. She closed her hands around the hard globes of his b.u.t.tocks, squeezing the taut muscles. He was so hard. So hot.

Faster. Deeper. Until each thrust made her cry out and she wriggled and moaned, bending her knees and pressing her heels against the soft mattress. Sensation spiraled ever tighter, and she slapped her palms against the sheets and fisted the soft cotton, dragging it into great mounds until the sheer pleasure pushed beyond bearing, and she screamed her release. Anthony's kiss, rough and hot, caught the sound, his body rigid as he found his own final pleasure.

She closed her eyes, wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, breathless from the weight of him but reluctant to push him away. She liked the feel of him, hard and solid, and she made a soft protest as he rolled away.

"Sleep, Emma mine," he whispered, gathering her in his embrace.

Emma mine. She smiled, and closing her eyes, she slept.

When she awoke, she realized that Anthony yet held her, his chest against her back, one arm tossed across her shoulders. And she sensed he, too, was awake. Glancing at the window, she saw the first rays of dawn streaking the sky.

"I should return to my chamber before Nicky awakens to find me gone." She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly shy and strange, now that the light of day was creeping through the window.

"I cannot argue your logic, though I have no wish to let you go just yet." Anthony stroked her hair and shook his head in bemus.e.m.e.nt. "Some part of you will always be reasonable and steady."

She had no wish to go, but, yes, reasonable and steady girl that she was, she knew that it was time. She frowned, thinking of the trek she faced to reach her own chamber. "Why do you sleep in a separate wing from your son?"

He laughed, his breath caressing the nape of her neck. "And some part of you will always be a most curious puss. It is not unusual, Emma, for a man to set up a nursery in a different wing."

"No. Not unusual," she agreed, "but somehow, it seems unusual for you."

So long was his reply in coming that she thought he would not answer, and then he said, "My dreams are haunted by the past. I have no wish to wake Nicky in the dead of night."

Dreams. Nightmares. Did he mean that he might cry out in the night? Frighten his son?

"Are your memories so very terrible?" she asked, rolling to face him.

He made no reply but kissed her then, hard and demanding. And there was her answer. Dreams so frightful he would not speak of them.

Pulling away, he looked toward the rising sun, the dawn growing brighter with each pa.s.sing second. His lips curved in a rueful smile.

"I must be away, Emma."

"The sooner to return, my-" She broke off before she uttered the fateful word. She had been about to say my beloved. Was he? Dear heaven. Was she in love with Anthony Craven? There was no doubt that she was entranced by him, desired him, yearned for his company both in the bedchamber and out...but had she been so very foolish as to give him her heart? That road could lead only to disappointment and disaster.

"My lord," she finished hastily, improvising in the face of his questioning glance.

Emma rose from the bed, gathered her discarded garments, and dressed herself with an economy of movement. As Anthony made to don his breeches, she shook her head emphatically.

"No, Anthony. If Nicky is awake, he should not see us creeping through the house like criminals. If I am found wandering about at this early hour, I will simply plead a restless sleep and the need for a breath of air."

Finishing with the last of her b.u.t.tons, Emma leaned forward and brushed her lips across his in a fleeting caress. She gazed at his face, intent on memorizing every detail. That he would visit her dreams while he was gone-and likely even her thoughts during waking hours-she did not doubt.

"Safe journey. Safe return."With that softly spoken farewell, she forced herself to turn away and slipped from the room into the cool, silent hallway.

Emma stood at her window, hidden from view by the heavy velvet hangings. She watched as Anthony swung into the saddle atop the black horse she had seen him ride before. Though it was early still, the sun was bright, glinting off the steed's gleaming coat. Leaning forward, Anthony spoke to Nicky, and then to the stable master, Henry, who stood at the horse's head. Though she could not hear the words, Emma surmised that some small joke was exchanged between the two men, because Henry laughed and nodded at his master as he patted the great beast's side.

A gasp escaped her as Anthony tipped his head and looked toward her window. Heart pounding, she almost drew back into the shadows of the drapery, suddenly shy, yet uncertain why that should be so. Forcing a smile, she raised her hand in silent farewell, her fingers splayed across the gla.s.s. Then, unwilling to watch him ride away, her emotions too new, too strange, she turned her back to the window, her heart sinking as she heard the hollow clack of the horse's hooves on the cobbled drive, growing fainter, and fainter still. She stood motionless, aching to open the window and call her good-byes, knowing that such a thing could not be done.

What in heaven's name was the matter with her? She was not one for melancholy farewells and brooding regret. With Nicky off to the stable for a riding lesson with Henry, her time was her own, and for a moment she wished she had not agreed to this alteration in schedule. Nicky's disarming presence would be a very welcome diversion at the moment.

Pacing restlessly, her mind full of wild thoughts and recollections of her night spent in Anthony's arms, Emma deliberately crossed to the armoire and retrieved a novel. She would lose herself in the heroine's story and, for the moment, she would forget her own. Her emotions were too fresh, too confused, and she was not ready to examine too closely her feelings for Anthony. Smoothing her skirt, she was about to settle on the window seat when there was a soft knock at her door.

As Emma opened the door a crack, Meg bobbed an awkward curtsy, her enlarged belly precluding graceful movement.

"Meg!" Emma smiled in genuine pleasure. She pulled the door open wide. "Come in."

The maid darted a nervous glance along the empty hall and shook her head, keeping her eyes downcast.

"I've a message," she mumbled, fumbling through the pocket of her skirt.

"A message?" Emma frowned, startled by the p.r.o.nouncement and perplexed by the girl's odd behavior.

The maid held a small folded sheet toward her. It was sealed in dark red wax. She thrust the missive in Emma's direction, her hand shaking slightly as she did so.

"Meg, are you ill?" A p.r.i.c.kle of alarm crawled along Emma's nape. "Come in and sit for moment. Is there aught amiss?"

"Take it," Meg whispered miserably, shoving the letter into Emma's hand. "I have to get to work now." She turned away.

Leaning into the hallway, Emma watched in bemused silence as the girl hurried to the end of the hall, her gait made awkward by her heavy burden.

After a moment Emma turned her attention to the note, and upon examination, she found her name scrawled across the front in a masculine hand. There was no indication as to whom the sender might be. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, a flare of hope bursting through her, to sparkle in her veins. Anthony. Could the note be from him?

Closing the door, she then returned to the window seat and sank down on the soft cushion as she considered the blob of melted wax. It bore no seal, its smooth surface giving no hint as to who might wish to contact her.

Carefully, she pulled the wax apart and unfolded the sheet but frowned down at the message, her heart sinking as she realized the sender was not the one she had desired.