"It was badly done of me. I never should have encouraged you."

"You didn't encourage me. I chose this path on my own."

"Yes, but it was mad of me to suggest it."

She should have left, but she didn't. They tarried, apparently feeling there was something else that should be mentioned, but she couldn't imagine what it might be.

To her great astonishment, he drew her to him and bestowed a very sweet, very chaste kiss.

"Don't come back," he said.

"I might," she threatened.

"I don't want you in my room so I plan to start locking my door."

"Are you afraid of a mere woman, Mr. Drummond?"

"Perhaps I am, Miss Fogarty." He grinned as if he couldn't believe he'd admitted it. "Would you like me to walk you to your cottage?"

"No. I can find the way."

"You're not scared of being alone in the dark?"

"Never have been."

"Goodnight then."

He pushed her into the hall. It was a gentle push, but a push nonetheless.

They tarried again, speechless, poignant emotions swirling, but she couldn't latch on to an appropriate one. He chuckled, as if he realized how foolish he was being, then he shut the door in her face and spun the key in the lock.

So...evidently he was afraid of her, and she suspected it might indicate a slight fondness. Miles had two days to beg for mercy, but if he didn't use them, maybe she could use them instead.

There might be a decent man buried under Mr. Drummond's hard exterior. If only she could figure out how to lure that decent man to the surface. She was certain she could acquire precisely what she needed from him.

With very much regret, she turned and headed for the cottage, her mind awhirl with what she could say and do the following afternoon that might have any effect on him at all.

CHAPTER TEN.

Kit was standing in a deserted parlor, watching Sophia Marshall stroll by out in the garden, when Damian spoke from behind him.

"I hear Miss Marshall has captured your fancy."

Kit turned. "Where did you hear that?"

"A little bird told me."

"You believed it?"

Damian came over to the window and glanced out just as she disappeared into the woods and headed for Drummond Cottage. He scoffed with disgust. "I didn't believe it, except now I stumble on you drooling over her like a smitten boy."

Kit shrugged. "She's pretty."

"But spoiled and lazy and rude."

"I like her anyway."

"She's a Marshall. Why would you?"

"You have the quarrel with them. I don't. What's it to you if I flirt with her?"

Damian knew Kit better than anyone. When they'd been children, he'd taken beatings for Kit who'd been smaller and less able to defend himself. He'd gotten into deadly fights for Kit, to protect him, to keep bullies and perverted older men at bay. And though Kit couldn't prove it, he even suspected Damian had murdered a camp guard who had often tormented Kit.

The guard had been a drunkard, found face down in a stream so his death was ruled an accidental drowning. As the body was hauled away, Damian's sole remark about it had been, "He won't bother you again, Kit. No one will."

After that, people had tiptoed around Kit. They'd studied Damian with a jaundiced eye, comprehending that-if they crossed Damian-there would be consequences.

Kit had never figured out why he and Damian were friends. In all their time together in Australia, the only other person Damian had allowed to get close was fellow prisoner, Anne Blair, and Kit hadn't figured out that relationship either.

She'd been a wounded soul, a convict who'd lost track of her children when she'd been transported. She'd occasionally mothered Damian, which might have explained his affection for her. But Kit had simply been a burden, like a younger brother who'd needed constant tending.

He'd always been grateful for Damian's interest, but it was irksome to realize how easily Damian could delve to the heart of Kit's worst impulses.

"You intend a bit more than flirting," Damian said.

"Maybe."

"You think she'll spread her legs for you?"

"I won't know unless I try to convince her."

"What about her precious fiance, the indubitable Mr. Bean?"

"The minute he discovered Miles was beggared, he tossed her over."

"She's jilted so she's scared and vulnerable. Are you hoping to ride to her rescue?"

"Well, I don't expect I'll be rescuing her from any peril, but I'm certainly hoping for a ride or two." At the crude comment, Damian snorted with grim amusement, and Kit asked, "So...you don't mind?"

"Or course I mind, but I doubt that will stop you."

"I owe you so much, Damian."

"Shut up about it, would you? I'm weary of your fawning."

"If you order me not to trifle with her, I won't."

"It's naught to me if you trifle with her. Ruin her for all I care. Just don't plead with me on her behalf. She's not staying here."

"I understand."

"If you want to take her to London and keep her as your doxy, that's your business, but I'm planning on you remaining at Kirkwood as my manager."

"What if I married her and settled down? What would you think?"

"I'd think you've tipped off your rocker, and I'd rescind my offer of employment."

Since Kit's return to England, he'd earned his living gambling in London. He could have worked occasionally for Damian's old friend, Michael Scott Blair, but Michael was a criminal and brigand involved in numerous unsavory enterprises. He was the one who'd taught Damian how to protect himself, how to fight and win and survive.

Yet gambling and criminal enterprises weren't a valid basis for the stable life Kit dreamed of having.

"I like her," he repeated, unable to clarify the rationale for his infatuation.

"So you've said, but what has that to do with anything?"

"Probably nothing."

"If you're determined to wed, pick someone else." Damian scowled. "And not Miss Fogarty. She's leaving too."

He started out, and Kit asked, "Where are you going?"

"I'm off to speak with Portia Smithwaite and her father."

"You'll really propose to her?"

"Why not? I have to get leg-shackled someday, don't I?"

"I suppose every man should. Apparently it civilizes us."

"You're aware of my opinion about women."

"They're all the same."

"Yes, so it could be Miss Smithwaite or anyone."

"You claim I have tipped off my rocker. A man's choice of spouse matters so much. Why not select a bride who pleases you? Wouldn't you like to be happy?"

"Happy?" Damian appeared perplexed, as if he'd never heard the word before. "I have many reasons that might push me into matrimony, but happiness isn't on the list."

With that, he sauntered out, and Kit listened to him depart. After sufficient time had passed that he could be sure Damian had left the property, he scooted out a rear door and headed to Drummond Cottage.

When Mr. Bean's letter had been delivered, he'd been immediately informed by a servant. Fool that he was, he'd actually imagined Miss Marshall might come to him, that she might ask his advice, but he knew better than to engage in fantasies.

Through hard lessons in Australia, he'd learned that he had to create his future, had to reach out and grab what he wanted. No one would give him any boon. He had to seize what he craved, and he craved Miss Marshall very much.

It made no sense. As Damian had pointed out, she was rude and snooty and difficult, but she'd ensnared him somehow, and half the fun of chasing after her would be the satisfaction he'd receive when she was finally caught.

He walked up the lane to the cottage, and he stared at it, trying to picture what it must have been like when Damian resided in it with his grandfather.

Currently there was no sign of that more prosperous era. The yard was overgrown with weeds, the shutters busted off, the windows boarded over. A chimney on the south end had collapsed, and when there was bad weather rain would pour in and had likely wrecked the upper floor.

He was exasperated by the flagrant waste and wondered if any of it was salvageable. His sojourn in the wilderness at Botany Bay had taught him that items like lumber and shingles and bricks were extremely valuable. How reckless it was of Edward and Miles Marshall to discount such precious commodities, but then they'd been rich and thought they always would be.

Why would they be concerned if a building collapsed?

He could have said he opened the door, but the wood was so rotted it was hanging from the hinges. He strutted in as if he owned the place. It was dark and dank inside so he couldn't see much, but he could hear someone moving around upstairs.

He went over and carefully climbed, worried that the steps were rotted. He'd hate to fall and break a leg, but they seemed sturdy enough.

There was a hallway at the top, lined with bedchambers, and he was delighted by the decrepit state. Not because he enjoyed such devastation, but because the horrid conditions would make Miss Marshall more amenable to any suggestion.

She was pacing and grumbling so he found her easily. He marched into her room, while only briefly pausing to hope her mother wasn't with her. Luckily she wasn't.

"Hello, Miss Marshall," he said, stopping her in her tracks.

She gasped with affront. "What are you doing in here?"

"I had to talk to you."

"But...you simply barged in. You didn't even ask permission."

"Who would I have asked? Your butler? In case you haven't noticed, you don't have one anymore."

As if she were a queen addressing a lowly subject, she gestured to the hall. "You need to leave."

"I won't. Not just yet anyway."

He strolled over to the window. The boards had been yanked away, the tattered curtains ripped down so fresh air blew in. It helped to mask the smell of dust and decay. He peered into the woods, and through the trees, the roof of the manor was visible.

"This place is awful," he said.

"It certainly is, and I will never forgive Mr. Drummond for forcing it on me."

He chuckled. "I'm sure that will bother him immensely."

"Why don't you hurry back to the manor and tell him how appalling it is?"

"He knows. That's why he sent you over here." He grinned at her over his shoulder. "I can see Kirkwood."

"Don't remind me."