They both sighed. "Yes."

"What is it?"

"The pirate claimed to be...well...our half-brother."

She scowled. "I don't understand."

"He is the son sired by Charles Sinclair on my mother. When they were in Paris, remember? She had a son."

"I thought he died as a boy."

"No one ever knew for sure, and Father wasn't about to waste money or energy trying to find out."

"Your half-brother..." she reflected. "Why would he do such a thing? Why would he murder Tristan?"

"Apparently, it was vengeance-on behalf of his mother. Or I guess I should say on behalf of my mother."

"Unbelievable."

She was quiet, plotting, her mind awhirl with options. What did she want? What should she do?

"I'm not certain what should happen next," she said.

"We don't have to figure it out today."

"Will we have a funeral? Will we bury him?"

"Not yet. I've paid to mount a search. An acquaintance of mine is going to look for him."

"Is there any hope he'll be found?"

He shrugged. "I have to try."

"So we won't hear anything for months."

Or perhaps years! She could drag it out forever!

"No."

"May I...may I stay in London? I'd like to be close in case there's any news."

"Of course you can stay. For as long as you like."

Outside, in the window behind James, she could see Miss Stewart approaching from the garden.

Fate had provided Miranda with a marvelous opportunity to seize the life for herself that she'd always craved, but Stewart could wreck everything.

James was so bewitched by Stewart that he would never fire her, and the blasted woman was too stupid to leave on her own. Miranda had to up the stakes, had to force Stewart out of their lives.

Stewart was about to enter the house through the same door Miranda had just used. Her path would take her directly past the parlor where Miranda was sequestered with James.

If Miranda was lucky, Stewart would glance into the room, and Miranda realized the precise scene that Stewart needed to witness.

Miranda buried her face in her hands, and she blinked and blinked until her eyes watered.

It was an old trick, one she'd perfected as a girl when her gullible parents had refused to let her have her way. By the time she stood, she'd worked up a good sheen of tears. She turned to James, swiping at her cheeks.

"Don't cry," he soothed. "It will be all right."

"What will I do without him? What will become of me?"

She staggered over to him and snuggled herself to his broad chest.

"I've been shopping for my trousseau," she said, "and it's almost complete. Now there's to be no wedding. It all seems so sad."

"I know."

"I feel so frivolous. I spent yesterday visiting friends and drinking tea, but poor Tristan was dead at the bottom of the ocean. I wish I could die, too!"

"Hush. Don't talk like that."

She pulled away and peered up at him. Their position was scandalously romantic. If they were observed, only one conclusion would be drawn. He was gazing at her so tenderly, and she froze, on pins and needles, positive he was about to kiss her.

She waited...and waited...

Behind her, a gasp sounded, and James frowned and stepped away.

Miranda peeked over her shoulder, delighted to see Miss Stewart in the doorway. She was so pale that Miranda wondered if she might swoon.

Aware that her expression was hidden from James, Miranda flashed a sly, triumphant grin.

Miss Stewart studied them carefully, not missing a single detail, then she whipped away and fled without a word.

A charged silence ensued, and Miranda said, "Well, I declare! She is so moody! What has gotten into her now?"

James clasped Miranda's arms and eased her away.

"Would you excuse me?"

He hurried out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Harriet sat on the deserted beach, her toes curled into the hot sand. Waves lapped in lazy surges. A warm breeze ruffled her hair. The sun was so bright, the sky so blue, that her eyes ached.

Off in the distance, she could see several other islands poking out of the water, and on the horizon, it seemed as if she was staring at the Spanish mainland, but she couldn't be sure. The sight might have simply been an illusion. In any case, it was all too far away to be relevant to her current predicament.

"Harriet," Tristan called from behind her, and she glanced around.

He was up above her on the dunes, lounging in the shade. He gestured for her to join him, but she didn't move.

They had spent three harrowing days and nights out on the ocean, but the fourth morning had found them winging toward a tropical isle, neatly directed by the tide as if it had been their destination all along.

The surf had tossed their boat upside down, pitching them out so they'd nearly drowned. Tristan had been in no condition to fight the current, and Harriet had been pulled under by the weight of her sodden clothes, so they'd just managed to wade to sh.o.r.e.

As they'd lain on the sand, counting their blessings and saying their prayers, they'd watched in dismay as their boat was smashed to bits on an outcropping of rocks.

Since then, many days had pa.s.sed, and Tristan had amazed her by remaining alive. His injuries had festered, but he claimed the salt water was healing, so he swam often, and the therapy actually seemed to be helping. His pallor had faded, his wounds closing, the redness of infection disappearing as if it had never been.

His energy and vigor were gradually returning, along with his c.o.c.ky att.i.tude. Whenever she heard him barking orders, she breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he was on the mend.

As for herself, she was still in a state of shock, too inundated to think clearly or make plans. She'd survived their ordeal, and for the moment, it was the sole aspect upon which she could focus.

Their island-which Tristan had dubbed Eden-was small, with a slight rise in the middle from which the ocean was visible all the way around. They were totally alone, much as Adam and Eve had been, and she felt vulnerable and exposed.

Her stockings and shoes had been lost in their frantic struggle to get on sh.o.r.e. Her gown was torn to shreds to use as bandages, so she was clad only in her chemise. When worn under a dress, the garment was very functional, but as a piece of clothing in and of itself, it provided no protection whatsoever.

The straps were narrow and the hem very short, hanging to just above her knees. Her arms were bare, her feet were bare, her shoulders and a good deal of bosom were bare. For a woman who had been covered from chin to toe her entire life, she might as well have been naked.

Tristan, too, was hardly dressed, sporting a pair of male drawers and naught else. No shirt. No stockings. No shoes. Back on his ship, he'd taken up the battle in only his trousers, but she'd ripped those away to check a gash on his leg.

The drawers hugged his narrow hips and fell to mid-thigh, and they were a light cream color, so whenever she happened to notice him out of the corner of her eye, she was always initially stunned to suppose that he was nude.

He called to her again, and finally, she rose and went to him. He limped and was easily fatigued, and she worried that he might overtax himself and have a relapse.

She'd told him that nothing frightened her, but she'd been lying. Her greatest fear was that he would perish, and she would be left on her own in the G.o.dforsaken spot.

"Are you all right?" he asked as she settled next to him.

"Just a tad unnerved-by the silence and the isolation."

"Which is certainly understandable."

"Do you imagine anyone will ever find us?"

"Of course they will. We're in the shipping lanes. Ships must travel by here all the time."

She'd kept a constant vigil, but she hadn't seen the least hint of a vessel.

"What if they don't?" she said. "What if no one ever comes for us?"

"You can't think that way."

"No one will look for me."

Helen would miss her, and Helen would eventually grieve, but months might pa.s.s before she realized that Harriet had vanished.

"Well, plenty of people will miss me," Tristan said. "They're probably organizing a full-scale search even as we speak."

"Let's hope so."

"Let's do. I refuse to allow you to sink into the doldrums. Not so early anyway. After we've been here a year or two-"

"A year or two!" She was aghast.

"I was joking, Harriet."

He reached out and patted her hand, the gesture sending a jolt of sensation up her arm. Tristan was still too incapacitated to engage in any s.e.xual activity, but their attraction remained blatant and impossible to ignore.

"Will we starve?" she inquired.

"No."

"Will we freeze to death?"

As it was insufferably warm, the question was ludicrous, but he chuckled and answered it kindly.

"Definitely not."

She didn't know why she was being so petulant and unhelpful, but she was perplexed over why nothing ever went as it should.

Her life had been one disaster after the next. Who was set adrift by pirates and lived to tell the tale? The event was just one, in a long line of calamities that seemed specifically designed to test her mettle.

Why was she so unlucky? Why had she been singled out for such drama and heartache?

Although she grasped the fact that it wasn't Tristan's fault they'd been targeted by his pirate-brother, she couldn't move beyond the notion that he'd caused the incident. The idea made her ill-tempered, made her want to snap at him, to blame him.

"Come," he said. "I need to show you something."

"I'm too tired," she grouched.

"I know, sour puss, but come with me anyhow."

He was being too considerate, and she felt petty and ungrateful. When he stood and extended a hand to her, she hesitated, then linked their fingers, recognizing that she couldn't stay on the beach forever.

He pulled her to her feet, and while she should have drawn away, she didn't. She clasped hold of him as if he was her last tether to sanity. She was extremely distraught, and it was all she could do to keep from flinging herself into his arms as if she was a tiny child.

She wanted him to insist everything would be fine, and she couldn't bear to be separated from him for a single second, being absurdly terrified that she might blink and he'd disappear.

While they'd been growing close in his cabin, their predicament in the longboat-with her not knowing if he would live or die-had altered their relationship. They were joined in ways she didn't comprehend, as if their connection now existed on a celestial plane that was too difficult for mere mortals to fathom.

They wandered from the dunes into the trees and brush, and they walked slowly, letting Tristan catch his breath.