And when she sighed, and he insinuated his tongue into her mouth, probing, touching, stroking...why, she thought she might simply go mad.

She raised her arms to slide them around his neck, her cloak falling away without notice or care. It was only important that she hang on, keep him close, urge him closer. Because there was more than awareness in her now. There was hunger, a hunger she didn't understand but felt certain only he knew how to feed.

His hands went to her head, and she could feel the slight tug as he pulled the pins from her hair, slid his fingers into the tumbling curls even as he sighed against her mouth. He liked that? That was good, because she liked it, as well. Very much.

Now his hands were on her shoulders, and he was kissing her ear, his breath hot against her, sending shivers down her arms. He was pressing kisses along the length of her neck, and she was falling...no, he had her. He had her safe, and if they were falling, they were falling together, until she was lying on the soft velvet cloak.

And he was still kissing her, his fingers lightly tugging at the squared neckline of her chemise, his lips following the descent of the lace-edged silk, setting her skin on fire, making it impossible for her to breathe, but only possible to gasp in surprise as her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were suddenly free of the silk and he was touching her...touching her everywhere, kissing her everywhere, whispering that she was beautiful, she was everything, she was heaven and h.e.l.l and the world in between....

His mouth closed over one taut, straining nipple, and Alina pressed her head back, raising her chin, raising her upper body toward him, offering she knew not what, as long as he didn't stop, never stopped.

She wanted to be touched, needed to be touched. Would simply die if this feeling went away.

His fingers closed over her other nipple, squeezing, rubbing, and she cried out at the intensified pleasure that shot through her, caused an ache to begin between her thighs. She dragged her nails down his back, feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath the fine lawn of his shirt, the faint shuddering of those same muscles as she cupped her breast, lifting it for him as he stroked the very tip with his wonderfully rough fingers.

She was his instrument, and he was composing a symphony upon her body. She soared, she swept, she sighed. She urged, she purred, she demanded. Because there was more, there had to be more. No symphony, no matter how wonderful, doesn't build, and build, the way she felt her senses building, without a heart-pounding crescendo somewhere, a thrilling climax, a sound so perfect and wonderful that it stops your heart, your breathing, only to take you up, up, into the stars before at last returning you to earth.

She was his instrument, and as Justin strummed her, his tongue flicking at her in time with his stroking thumb, his thigh somehow insinuated between her thighs, pressing hard against her, urging her to return that pressure.

Without thought, without shame, she responded, rubbing herself against him. With growing awe, she knew there was a crescendo coming to her, an ending to the symphony, yes, but one that she had to know.

And yet, when it happened, when the glorious became nearly intolerable, when her body at last found its own music, as her eyes flew open wide and she could only hold on to Justin as every cymbal crashed, and her heart became a tympani, she was still aware somewhere inside of her that it wasn't enough.

Not for her. Not for him.

Justin covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and rolled onto his back, taking her with him, pressing her cheek against his chest as his arm came around her and held her close.

They lay there for some time, feeling the heat from the fire, barely stirring when a log burned through and crashed in the grate. Alina's breathing at last returned to something less frantic, and her heartbeat was no longer audible in her ears.

And still she said nothing. Justin said nothing.

The mantel clock chimed out the hour, and at last Justin moved. He kissed the top of her head, and then helped her sit up, lifted her cloak up and around her shoulders.

She looked at him in open curiosity. "Why...why was that all?"

He retrieved his snifter of brandy and downed the remainder of its contents.

"You're supposed to sip, remember?"

He put down the snifter and, at last, he smiled at her. "I should be shot," he said affably enough. "That...uh...that wasn't intended. It was to start and end with a kiss."

Alina drew the edges of the cloak close together over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I know. Tatiana explained it all to me. Gentlemen can be overcome by l.u.s.t at the drop of a hat. They can't help themselves. It wasn't your fault."

"Tatiana? She said that? And who, pray, is this font of wisdom?"

"My companion. She was once my maid, but now she's my companion, and Danica is my dresser."

"I see. And which is which, may I ask, so that I can thank your companion for having explained it all to you?"

"Now you're being facetious. I know I really don't know anything. In point of fact, until just now I thought the whole thing..." She stopped herself.

Justin helped her to her feet. "Yes? You thought the whole thing what?"

Alina bent her head and muttered the word beneath her breath.

He leaned closer, pushing her tangled curls away from her face. "Your pardon, kitten. I didn't quite catch that."

"Repulsive," she said quietly, and then looked up into his face. "I thought the entire thing repulsive. There, I've said it."

"Ah, I see. Now I wonder if Tatiana's explanations left much to be desired, or if I should thank her again, as she made it much easier for the reality to exceed your woefully low expectations. Although I will tell you, I believe that I am not completely without talent, and that you are delightfully teachable. That is who I was supposed to be tonight, wasn't it, my curious little kitten? Your teacher? Your small experiment in what it means to be a woman? It may be a little late for warnings, but you should know that it is dangerous to play with me."

She wasn't certain which most upset her, his words or his tone. She only knew that the next thing she was aware of was the stinging of her palm after it had connected with his smiling face.

"Good," Justin said as she turned and began to run toward the door, her face aflame with shame. "We'll deal much better these next days if you hate me. Or at least I will."

She whirled about to face him, her cloak swirling around her feet-which would have been marvelously dramatic, she supposed, except that she nearly tripped over the thing as she walked back to him.

"I don't understand you. I don't understand any of this very much, but I don't understand you most of all. Why are you here? You've already told your Prince Regent that you won't do as he wants you to do. You won't marry me. So what does it matter to you if Inhaber Novak wants to kill me? I am none of your concern. You've made your own bed with your Prince Regent, for whatever reasons, so why don't you just go lie in it, and leave me to myself? Luka is more than capable of protecting me. He was a soldier, and loyal to my father. You were nothing but a, a- Oh, and that's another thing! I have no idea what you were, what you are. So thank you very much, my lord, but we won't be requiring your services anymore. Luka will shoot the Inhaber dead and then take me to my mother's family. You, my lord, can...can simply go to straight to h.e.l.l."

"Wait," Justin said quietly, just as she was about to make a second attempt at a dramatic exit, this time first carefully raising her cloak hem above her bare ankles. "There is no good time to tell you this. There is no family here in England for you to go to, Alina."

"There's not?" Alina felt the first stirrings of what could turn out to be real panic. "But-"

"Your mother had a single surviving relative, a sibling, a brother, Robert, Earl of Birling. He died without issue a little over eight years ago, in a duel. Everything was entailed, and there were no more living male relatives to inherit. The t.i.tles, the lands, everything reverted to the Crown at that time. Your mother didn't know, Alina, because when she married your father the Farber family cut her off and had nothing to do with her ever since. She never told you that?"

Alina stumbled to a chair and sat down with a thump. "No...no, she never said anything." She looked up at Justin, her eyes awash in tears. "Disowned her? Why?"

"Your mother was several years older than her brother, who was a contemporary of mine. I don't know the entire story, but there was something about the disgrace of having the only daughter married to...to a b.l.o.o.d.y foreigner. I'm sorry, that's all I know."

Alina rubbed her hands together in her lap. "So I am totally alone. Aren't I, Justin? Except for Aunt Mimi, of course, but I could not go back to her. I really couldn't. And...and you won't marry me."

He took hold of the desk chair and put it down in front of her, backward, and straddled it. His face was so serious, she felt frightened.

"No, kitten, I can't marry you. I told you, I'm a fugitive. Once you're safe, I'll be leaving England, never to return, or at least not until the Prince Regent is dead and unable to refute his signed pardon I have safely tucked away. Even a week ago I would have given everything I own to remain here, but now leaving is not only necessary, but I'm actually glad to be going. There's nothing here I want anymore save for a few friends. My estate is in the hands of my longtime manager, and will wait for me. It's not entailed in any event. What fortune that has remained here is my own and is already on its way to join with the bulk of my funds in Brussels."

"It all sounds so neat and tidy, the way you say it. And bloodless. You really don't care, do you? It's not a sham. You'd be safe in Brussels?" She didn't know why she asked that last question, why it was suddenly so important to her that he be safe.

He shook his head. "Once I make it to Brussels, I'll set sail for America. I've had my fill of kings, a surfeit of kings. The Americans got rid of us, and I think they had the right of it."

"America," she repeated. "That's a world away."

"A lifetime away. But you'll be fine here, Alina. While I was in London I made arrangements with my banker. My town house in London is now yours, as is a small estate located very near my friend Tanner Blake and his wife. I've already alerted them that you will soon be taking up residence, and I know Tanner will agree to manage your finances for you until such time as they present you next season in London and you capture the eye of half the gentlemen there. You are, no matter what, the granddaughter of an English earl, the daughter of a war hero. Prinny won't say a word against you. He can't, not after half of London is already sending around the word that I paid him fifty thousand pounds for the pardon he gave me."

Alina's head was spinning. She would be safe. She would be her own person, here in England. He was giving her the world. This man who barely knew her, this man who owed her nothing, was giving her everything. "I, um, I...thank you. You didn't have to...that is, there was no reason for you to...thank you."

He reached out and took her hand. "There was every reason, Alina. That's what you don't know but the Prince Regent did. Your uncle's duel was with me, and I fled England to escape the hangman for putting a period to Robbie Farber's existence. The Prince Regent summoned me back, pardoned me, so he could use me to rid Francis of this Inhaber Novak. And also to have himself a giggle or two at my expense, I'm sure, knowing I could not turn away from this chance to make up for my crime. I doubt he's considered the possibility of your death any more real than he would a play at Covent Garden. The man already half believes he fought with Wellington at Waterloo. Insanity seems to be his father's gift to him."

Alina pulled her hand free. "You? You shot my uncle? My mother's brother? You? Why?"

"That's not important. I have no excuses to offer you. Only my apology, and my thanks for allowing me this chance to make some small amends in the only way I can. The Prince Regent knew that, as well. He knows I can rid you and Francis of the Inhaber because that's what I do, what I've done these past long eight years. I'm not a nice man, Alina. In fact, I am the utter ant.i.thesis of the sort of man you deserve."

She would not listen to such foolishness. He was being forced to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Inhaber-for her! He was doing it all for her, as he was giving her his possessions, cutting himself off from his own country, making himself into a fugitive. As some sort of penance for something that had happened so many years ago? Dear G.o.d! He was many thin things, perhaps, as he insisted, but he was not an evil man. How could she convince him? She felt so powerless, and so very sad.

"Alina, don't let your mind wander. Listen to me. Once the Inhaber is dead, both Francis and my Prince Regent will know they've gone as far as they can go. That will...be made clear to them. They'll both accept their losses and move on to the next intrigue. With monarchies, there is never a lack of intrigue. The Regent will find it easier to forget I ever existed. Your Romany will get their pitiful piece of land, and Francis will find a way to take it away again, one that doesn't involve you. Please, kitten, take what I'm offering you. It's all I have to give."

"My life. You're offering me my life."

"On the contrary, Alina. I prefer to see the thing as you saving mine. As for the rest-for tonight- that was my mistake, not yours. It's best if we simply forget it ever happened."

She nodded, unable to say anything else, knowing he would not listen to her anyway, and got to her feet. She walked toward the door slowly, stopping once to look back at him, and then left, softly closing the door behind her.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

JUSTIN MELTED INTO THAT peculiar darkness that comes just before dawn. The ground was unfamiliar, but the rules remained the same. See. Do not be seen. Act, don't think. Don't look in the face, not if you can help it. No one's nightmares were ever haunted by the remembrance of a turned back, a soft sigh as a soul surrendered to the afterworld.

Never hesitate.

Don't think of the child. Never, never think of the child....

He'd left the first body behind the b.u.t.tery. The man had been easy, half asleep at his post. Another reason to strike just before dawn: guards were at their most vulnerable as the night ended, as they congratulated themselves for a job well done and dreamed of a hot breakfast.

The second had proved more difficult, one of those rare soldiers that actually possessed some skills other than marching in a straight line and never thinking independently. But, in the end, he'd been no match for Brutus, and his neck had snapped like a dry twig.

Justin tapped Brutus on the shoulder and pointed toward the stand of trees set back about fifty yards from the gravel drive that led to Ashurst Hall. He then pointed to himself, and then to a similar grouping of trees on the other side of the drive. Brutus could move with the grace of a much lighter man, but he could not hope to conceal his bulk out in the open, crossing the drive.

No words were necessary. The man nodded once, showing his understanding, and the two parted ways.

Bent nearly in half, his knife concealed up his sleeve so that the blade didn't glint in the fading moonlight, Justin moved soundlessly over the gravel and slipped into the shadows.

There had been four men. Now there were two. Rafe's estate manager had seen the strangers indiscreetly and fatally advertising their presence in a local tavern, and they'd been under observation ever since. For two days and nights, as they'd watched Ashurst Hall, Ashurst Hall had been watching them. Now it was time they were gone.

Justin circled through the trees, his breathing slow and measured, his eyes on the ground, avoiding any errant twigs or loose stones, yet always flicking up, watching the shadows, separating tree from bush, at last locating the shadow that didn't fit either category.

Waiting, his ears alert for Brutus's signal that he'd gotten his man, Justin slid the blade forward, his hand closing familiarly on the hilt of the knife he'd had specially made for him at considerable expense in Spain after nearly losing his life to an inferior weapon. A workman is only as good as his tools, he'd known, and when your work is kill or be killed, there is no room for mediocre tools.

The short, shrill whistle broke the early-morning silence, and Justin was running and on his man before the fellow could fully rise from his crouch at the unexpected sound.

One arm encircling the man's chest, the tip of the Spanish knife lightly pressing against his throat, seemed to steal all thought of resistance, and the fellow began pleading in German, "Don't kill me, don't kill me."

"But it would be so easy, and relatively painless," Justin replied in flawless German. "Are you quite sure? Why should I spare you?"

"I do only what I'm told. A man has to live."

"Not necessarily. But you're a very fortunate man. Your companions are dead, all four of them."

"Four? But there were only three others. Please, sir, don't kill me."

At times, it was almost too simple to present a challenge. Having had Rafe's reconnaissance so easily proved correct, Justin slipped one leg between the man's thighs and, with a flick of his bent leg, had the man sprawled on the ground on his back. His captive lay there, showing no inclination to run, panting beneath his ridiculous mustachios and sideburns that had helped identify him and his compatriots in the village. After all, who outruns a knife in the back?

The knife was replaced by the pistol Justin carried in his waistband.

"We will now have a friendly chat about Inhaber Novak, my fuzzy friend."

"The Inhaber? But how did you-"

"Shh," Justin warned affably. "You have but one job now, my friend, other than to remain alive, and that is to answer my questions. Now, are you listening carefully? You really don't want to get any of the answers wrong, do you?"

The man shook his head furiously, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the pistol.

"Good. You know the Inhaber's location, hmm?"

"Lon-London, sir. There is a hotel...the Pulteney. The Russian Tsar headquartered there during the Allies Peace Celebrations, so the Inhaber wished to set himself up there, as well. It...it is very fine."

"How personally gratifying for the Inhaber and his consequence, I'm sure. The Pulteney is quite a lovely establishment. Now, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, you will tell me where he is." To be certain the man understood the seriousness of his question, Justin c.o.c.ked the pistol.

The man swallowed, shook his head. "But I told you."

Justin sensed Brutus's presence behind him. "Brutus, do I look stupid? More importantly, do I look harmless? And even more, do I seem to you a man who suffers fools gladly?"

Brutus growled low in his throat.

"He...he's on his way here," the hireling said quickly, his terrified gaze on Brutus. "We were to watch here, and wait for him, and the others. And...and have two of us follow you if you tried to take the girl away."

"Thank you. Brutus's imposing presence to one side, I had begun to worry I'd somehow lost my touch." Justin eased his pressure on the hammer of the pistol and returned the weapon to his waistband before pulling a folded letter from his pocket. "Not to insult your powers of retention, my good man, but I have composed a missive to your employer, one which you will deliver personally. You are hereby commissioned to present my compliments to the Inhaber, as well as the information that the lady has departed Ashurst Hall as of this morning. Observe."

As if to give credence to his words, the sounds of harness and coach horses could be heard from the drive. Brutus hauled up the man by his collar and turned him to watch as two coaches appeared out of the early morning mist and then disappeared into the distance. Brutus's whistle had not only alerted Justin. Wigglesworth had been stationed just outside the front door to Ashurst Hall and had flown into action the moment he'd heard the signal, quickly herding Alina and her small entourage into the pair of traveling coaches.

Once he had seen what he was meant to see, the Inhaber's minion was roughly redeposited on the ground. He drew himself up into a fetal position, covering his head with his arms. "Please don't let him hurt me."

Justin rubbed at his forehead and sighed. "More and more, the world is populated by idiots, Brutus," he complained wearily. "He won't hurt you," he then a.s.sured the whimpering man. "This letter saves your life. Here, sit up, take it. There's a good fellow. Now, why don't you just run off and play postman. Go on, run."

The man didn't need a second invitation. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter and took to his heels, heading, Justin knew, for the place where he and his compatriots had tied up their four horses, knowing that what he would find there would be those same four horses, only now, thanks to some of Rafe's men, three of them were roped together into a line and had bodies strapped across their saddles.

When it came to making statements, Justin knew nothing made more of an impression than a show of power. In this case, his.

It also made it easier for him and Brutus to mount their own horses and follow.

"Lovely morning for a ride," he remarked to his friend as the now-rising sun made it less than child's play to follow the tracks of the four horses. "And much too lovely a morning to die, Brutus, so we will approach with caution. The Inhaber may not believe I am a gentleman of my word and am in fact breaking it by following that fool up ahead of us."

Brutus made a noise that could be interpreted as amus.e.m.e.nt.