Actually he planned to ride to London and procure a Special License. He'd bring it back in case she grew amenable once she and her mother were evicted. That sort of catastrophe had an interesting way of riveting a woman's attention.

"And if he doesn't calm down?" she inquired.

"I have no idea. If he isn't my friend anymore, I can't imagine what my future will be like."

"You ruined everything-just for me."

"Yes, I did."

"I wasn't worth it. Tell him I wasn't. Tell him to let you stay, for I shall be gone as of tomorrow. Not you."

"If you depart while I'm away," he said, "inform a servant of where you'll be. Make sure I can find you."

"Why would you ever have to find me? What could possibly be your reason?"

She whipped away and left, and though he called to her several times, she kept walking.

Damian at 17...

Fifty lashes."

"I don't think so. Not this time."

Lt. Butler waved to his minions, expecting them to grab Damian and escort him to the flogging pole, but Damian wasn't a child any longer. He'd grown taller than most of the guards, and while he wasn't big and burly like some of Butler's more well-fed idiots, he was whipcord lean, his body honed from years of toil. And he was constantly very, very angry.

"Seize him," Butler ordered two of his cohorts.

They hesitated, worried about disobeying a direct command, but knowing-should they lay a hand on Damian-he would retaliate swiftly and viciously when they least expected it.

He'd developed an almost godlike reputation for being able to bring about any conclusion he wished. He was never observed committing any acts of mayhem, but in a land where accidents and illnesses were commonplace, his enemies were always dying under peculiar circumstances, which polished his status as a dangerous brigand.

He was blamed, his name whispered as a brute who rendered dire endings for those who crossed him. Occasionally he was the one who struck back, but more often Fate simply intervened and Damian didn't have to do anything.

Yet he let others presume he was the culprit. His prestige among the population had reached outrageous heights, and Butler couldn't inflict as much damage as he had in the past. Damian was feared and respected by all.

He hadn't been flogged in ages, and rumors were swirling that another administrator was on the way, that Butler would soon be leaving in disgrace, but no new superintendent had arrived. Butler continued to tyrannize his subjects.

"Seize him," Butler said again, but no one moved. "Fine, you insubordinate cowards! I'll deal with him myself, then I'll deal with the two of you once I'm through."

Butler didn't dare lose face in front of the guards or prisoners so he pushed them away and huffed over to Damian. Apparently he hadn't realized how Damian had grown. With them toe to toe, Damian towered over him, and suddenly Butler wasn't quite as belligerent.

"I charge you with assault on one of my officers."

"Really?" Damian casually replied. "On what evidence am I being accused? I demand to question your witnesses."

"You have a smart mouth, Mr. Drummond. You always have. You're aware that there are no witnesses."

"Then why am I being singled out? Perhaps he fell in that stream of his own accord. He's a drunken sot. Why must you automatically suppose he was attacked? I heard he stumbled and hit his head on a rock."

"Every time you deny your perfidy, I will add another year onto your sentence."

"You can try," Damian defiantly retorted, "but there's a lawyer living here now, remember? I believe he might have an opinion different from yours."

"Fifty lashes! For insolence to your betters."

Butler raised his whip, but before he could deliver a blow, Damian yanked it away. He broke the handle over his knee and tossed it on the ground, then he sauntered over to the whipping pole. He tugged off his shirt, then wrapped his arms around it, and he braced for an eternity, expecting Butler to storm over and begin. But no beating commenced.

Ultimately Damian peeked over his shoulder. Butler had vanished into his office, and the other prisoners were still standing in a line, their mouths agape. They cast nervous glances at each other, recognizing that havoc would ensue: rations would be cut, work hours increased, punishments enhanced.

Damian was sorry that Butler's wrath would fall on them, but he could no longer blithely accept Butler's absurd discipline. And Butler was constantly picking on Anne too, being especially horrid to her because she was Damian's friend.

For some reason, Butler had a particular hatred for Anne, and he deliberately made her life more miserable than circumstances would warrant. He'd recently ordered her to marry, but Anne had only ever loved one man-her deceased husband Julian-and she wouldn't wed another. She'd allow Butler to kill her before she'd relent, and with how deranged Butler had become, Damian was afraid he just might.

In a few months, Damian would be eighteen, and while his original sentence had been extended, after he was an adult he could move from the boy's camp and get a job in town. He wouldn't be so much at Butler's mercy.

There had been a gold discovery inland, and men were rushing to the gold fields. He thought he might join them, that it would be a good escape, but he couldn't depart while Butler remained in the colony. He couldn't permit Butler to hurt Anne more than he already had.

"What now?" he asked a guard.

"Now...we wait to see what happens to all of us."

Damian shrugged and plopped down on the ground, his back leaned against the pole. "Let me know once he decides."

He dozed off, not concerned about what would transpire. It was futile to fret, and he couldn't prevent what was coming. Butler would proceed, then Damian would react, and Damian would win in the end. Of that fact, he had no doubt, and from Butler's behavior that afternoon Damian suspected that Butler was starting to realize it too.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Georgina was staring out the window of her bedchamber in Drummond Cottage when she noticed Damian standing at the edge of the woods.

It was late, the moon not having risen yet so it was very dark and difficult to see him. As usual, he was dressed in black, and he was holding very still in that way he had, like a cobra about to strike.

Once he realized she'd observed him, he stepped out of the trees and walked over so he was underneath the window.

For a long while, neither of them moved, and she wondered what he was thinking. Was he as disturbed by events as she was?

After overhearing his quarrel with Mr. Roxbury, she'd fretted over him incessantly. She'd nearly returned to the manor a dozen times, feeling desperate to console him, but he'd been very clear that he didn't need her.

So she'd dawdled at the cottage, trying to pack her portmanteau, but she'd driven herself batty with anxiety as she'd jumped at every sound, expecting he'd sought her out instead, but he hadn't arrived.

Now here he was.

He made a slight gesture toward the house. It was a request to enter, a request to be with her, and she quickly nodded, inviting him in, which was insane. She was attired in her nightgown, with not a stitch of clothing on under it. Her hair was down, her feet bare. What was her plan? Would she entertain him privately in such a condition?

Apparently yes.

He disappeared into the shadows, and she faced the door, listening for him. Shortly it opened, and he slipped inside. Without speaking, he hurried to her and drew her into his arms. Then he was kissing her and kissing her as if he was drowning and she was the only one who could save him.

As always when she was with him, she forgot why he was at Kirkwood. His motives didn't matter. She was simply overwhelmed by him and had no means of fending off the temptation he offered. She didn't want to fend it off. He needed her empathy and friendship, and evidently she was ready to give him all those things and whatever else he asked for besides.

"I'm sorry for how I acted today," he whispered. "I was upset."

"I understood that you were."

"I was furious with Kit. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

She smiled. "No, you shouldn't have, but I forgive you."

"You're too good to me and much better than I deserve."

"I agree. I'm much better than you deserve."

He pulled her to him again and hugged her tightly.

"Why were you fighting with Mr. Roxbury?" she inquired.

"Have you talked to your cousin, Sophia, about him?"

"No, why?"

"He wants to marry her."

"You're joking."

"No."

"I had no idea they were cordial. Last I heard, he was pressuring her to have an affair."

"I guess he decided he'd like more than that."

"She accepted his proposal?"

"Yes."

Georgina couldn't wrap her mind around the notion. Sophia was so vain and finicky, and in picking Mr. Roxbury, she'd lowered her standards quite a bit. But calamity had a way of equalizing positions.

Why hadn't Sophia confided in Georgina? Perhaps her cousin was afraid of what Georgina's opinion would be. On the spur of the moment, she couldn't figure out what she thought of the situation.

"You're opposed?" she asked. "Is that why you were quarreling?"

He snorted with disgust. "Yes, I'm definitely opposed."

"Why?"

"Because he's my friend, and she's a Marshall."

"If he's your friend, couldn't you find it in your heart to be happy for him?"

He was quiet for an age, distress floating off him in waves. "I told him to leave Kirkwood," he admitted. "I told him to leave and not come back."

"You weren't serious, were you?"

"Yes, I was deadly serious," he said.

"It will be all right." She gazed up at him. "You'll see."

"It's all right now. I'm not a boy, and I hardly need him tagging after me."

"Will he still be your estate agent?"

"No. Estate agents are a penny a dozen. I'll hire someone else."

"Could I have my job back then? Would you give it to me?"

"No."

It was the response she expected, but it irked, and she grumbled, "I was good at it."

"I'm sure you were, but I only have a single use for women. If you'd like to work for me, you'll have to fill a different role. I've clarified which one."

"There you go being crude again. We've danced out to the edge of an affair several times, but you're too cowardly to forge ahead."

"Cowardly!"

"And you're too much of a gentleman to treat me badly."

"If that's what you suppose, you haven't been paying attention."

"I've been paying attention. Deep down, you're kind and generous. I wish you'd stop pretending to be horrid."

"I'm not pretending."

He stepped over to her rickety bed, and he lay down and dragged her down with him. Though she should have balked, she didn't hesitate.