"No. I'll always hope. It's just that the outside world seems very remote."

"What do you miss the most?" she inquired. "If you could request any item from England and have it magically appear, what would it be?"

"A thick, juicy steak and a gla.s.s of red wine."

His mouth watered, and for a brief second, he could smell the fat sizzling in the pan.

"How about you?" he queried. "What would you like to have?"

"Maybe a new dress?"

"I refuse to let you make such a practical choice." He ran a naughty hand down her flank. "Pick something else."

"How about a box of chocolates to go with your wine?"

"A marvelous idea."

"Do you suppose your brother has been notified of your disappearance?"

"Most likely."

"Will he believe you're dead?"

"Most likely," he said again, laughing.

"What would you imagine he's doing at this very moment?"

"Probably celebrating my early demise."

"Oh, what a horrid thing to say!"

He sighed and pondered James.

Through trial and tribulation, James had been his only friend, his only confidante. They'd been making such headway toward paying off the estate debts, but if Tristan wasn't there to chip in on the arrears, James might never get the properties back in the black. Tristan hated to have his brother carrying such a heavy load all by himself.

"Tell me the truth," she urged. "Would he fret over you?"

"Yes-devil that he is. He'll be worried sick. With our mother leaving as she did, when we were so young, we had a strange upbringing. Often, it felt as if it was just us two boys against the entire world."

He'd told Harriet about his scandalous mother, but he hadn't mentioned the rat swine, Charles Sinclair, who'd seduced her away from them. Tristan still couldn't speak rationally about the cad, and he deemed it the gravest of insults to have been attacked by the man's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son out on the high seas.

"I want to tell you a secret," she said.

"A secret? It's about time." He gripped her waist and squeezed tight. "Spill all, you little wench."

"I have a sister."

"You...have a sister?"

"Yes."

It wasn't anywhere close to the sort of admission he'd been craving, but it would have to do. He knew next to nothing about her, and he was desperate for information.

"What is her name?" he asked.

"Helen."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty, same as me. We're twins."

"Really? Does she look like you?"

"Exactly like me."

"Is she in London?"

"I'm not certain. She was...was...having a bit of a problem." She hesitated, then added, "Maybe more than a bit. She might have left by now. She was afraid of being caught and hanged."

"What did she do? Kill somebody?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps!" He came up on an elbow and leaned over to glare at her. "I was joking. Are you actually claiming that your sister murdered someone?"

"A rich fellow. In the house where she worked. She didn't mean to."

"I'm delighted to hear it!"

"He was trying to ravish her in the kitchen late at night, and she whacked him with a frying pan."

"And he died?"

"When she ran away, he was unconscious and didn't seem to be breathing, so we aren't sure of what happened."

He lay down and snuggled her nearer. "Who was the blasted oaf?"

"Bentley Something-or-other."

"Bentley Struthers? Gad, I know him. Trust me: He probably deserved it."

"If we ever get back to England-"

"Not if," he said. "When we get back to England."

"When we get back to England, if she was ever captured, would you help her? I've been frantic about it, and I don't have anyone to take her side."

"Of course I'd help her."

"I couldn't pay you."

"Harriet," he muttered, scoffing, "I would do anything for you. You wouldn't have to pay me. I'm embarra.s.sed that you'd a.s.sume so."

"Thank you."

He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek, thrilled that she'd confided in him.

"I'm glad you told me about her," he said.

"So am I."

"You're so tight-lipped about your life and your past."

"As are you."

"Me? Compared to you, I'm a veritable chatterbox."

"There's nothing much for me to tell." She was very still, and when she spoke again, she struggled to sound casual. "Is there anyone-other than your brother-grieving for you in London? A sweetheart? A mistress? A...a...wife?"

"I've never been married."

"You're not betrothed either? There's no pretty fiancee pining away for your quick return?"

"No," he lied, and he couldn't figure out why he would.

There was no reason to deny his betrothal, no reason to pretend Miranda didn't exist. Nor was it fair to deceive Harriet, but Miranda was a distant memory while Harriet was very, very real, and he truly didn't feel like a man who was about to wed.

Besides, his engagement to Miranda had no bearing on his relationship with Harriet. One woman was completely irrelevant to the other.

He had to marry, and he had to marry for money. Miranda had some. Harriet didn't. It was as simple as that, and while he was very fond of Harriet, he could never consider her as a bride, so it was foolish to create a big issue over something so immaterial.

"I miss my sister," she said. "We were very close, and I'm worried about her. She has a knack for getting into jams."

"She has the knack? You're the one who is lost at sea and likely presumed drowned. You're not in such great shape yourself."

"You're right about that."

She rolled over and peered at him. Moonlight drifted through the roof and walls, painting her skin a silvery color.

"Once we're rescued," she pressed, "do you think we'll ever see each other again?"

"Do you mean...when we're in London?"

"Yes. Will we remain friends, or will we just walk off the ship and never cross paths again?"

He studied her, gaping with consternation, and at his failure to profusely a.s.sure her that of course they'd see each other, he sensed she was deeply hurt.

"Never mind." She laughed, trying to make light of her comment. "I'm feeling awfully melancholy. I suppose it's all this talk about my sister."

He rested his palm on her cheek, and he scrutinized her face, committing her features to memory.

"I'd like it if we stayed in contact."

It was a tepid, pitiful response. This was the moment where he should have been proclaiming himself, where he should have insisted that he couldn't go on without her, but he didn't dare utter the promises she was desperate to hear.

When they were alone and so isolated, it was easy to discount their respective positions, but once they were in London, they could never fraternize. It simply wouldn't be appropriate, but he would never insult her by saying so.

"Could I write to you occasionally?" she shamed him by querying. "Would it be all right?"

"I'm sorry; I'm being an a.s.s." He smiled and shook his head, disgusted by his gutless nature. "My personal life is complicated, but you will always have a place in it. We'll figure it out when we get home."

"If I never saw you again"-a flood of tears surged to her eyes-"I don't know how I'd bear it."

"I feel exactly the same. I don't know how I'd bear it either." He bent nearer, and he kissed each of her eyelids. "Don't be sad. You know I can't stand it when you are."

"I'm being silly."

"No. It's just difficult between us. You understand that."

"Yes, I do."

"My choices are more complex than yours, but everything will work out."

She pulled him to her and initiated a kiss of her own, and he readily joined in, making love to her slowly, tenderly, showing her with his hands and mouth what he couldn't put into words.

When he finally entered her, there was a poignancy to it that they hadn't achieved prior. The most stunning wave of affection rushed through him, and a voice in his mind whispered that he loved her, that he'd always loved her, which couldn't be true.

The prospect was frightening, and he shoved it away, determined to focus only on the physical, on him and her and how splendid they were together.

He flexed leisurely, pushing in all the way, then retreating over and over again, and when he arrived at the end, she finished with him. They were in complete accord, as united as if the Lord, Himself, had bound them to one another.

How could they ever be parted? What force in the universe was powerful enough to tear them asunder?

As he slid away from her, he was extremely overwhelmed. They were silent, staring.

"What is it?" she eventually asked. "Why are you frowning?"

"I wish I'd met you long ago."

"Why is that?"

"Things might have turned out differently."

She stretched and grinned. "Is it always like this between lovers?"

"No," he said. "It's never like this."

"Then I'm very lucky, aren't I?"