In his arms, Antonia had verged on surrender. Would have surrendered if he'd persisted after that astonishing kiss that sent his brains a-begging. He could right now be pounding into her.

Instead he'd let her go.

He'd let her go.

Never again.

Twice she'd escaped. And twice, for God's sake, he'd released her. He couldn't even pretend she'd evaded his pursuit.

With a purposeful surge, he rose. Antonia Smith had had her amnesty. The game between them became as important as life and death. The man he believed himself to be, the scoundrel he wanted to be, wouldn't permit compassion to sway him next time.

The dragon would be his. Compassion be damned.

Antonia sneaked into her room without anyone except the stable hands seeing her. She didn't deceive herself they had the slightest doubt what she'd been up to. Even without Lord Ranelaw bribing them for information about her, her rumpled appearance betrayed her. She'd left dressed like a respectable woman. She returned looking like she'd been dragged through a hedgerow. It didn't take much to guess the reason why.

She could weather a little gossip below stairs as long as it didn't reach the houseguests. Dear heaven, let the gossip not spread.

Curse Ranelaw, he turned her life topsy-turvy. If anyone should be furious, it was she, not he.

She remembered how he'd looked when she'd left. Not angry, although there had been anger in his touch.

He'd looked utterly devastated.

The ache in her heart sharpened. Stupid to want to heal him, redeem him. Especially when he intended her nothing but ill.

As she crept past, Cassie's door was shut. It was still early. Hard to believe, after all she'd been through this morning. Luckily the gentlemen were shooting rabbits in one of the estate's far corners and the ladies hadn't emerged yet.

Antonia was pinning her hair and telling herself she'd had a fortunate escape, when Bella rapped on the door and barreled in without invitation.

"You must come," she said breathlessly, for once not subjecting Antonia to a critical inspection. Thank heaven. Antonia had already changed out of her stained and torn riding habit, but even a cursory glance would reveal Miss Smith was unusually flushed and dewy eyed.

Antonia set down the brush and turned to the maid. "What is it? Is it Cassie?"

Bella nodded. "Yes, miss. She's awful sick."

Sick? Guilt choked Antonia. While she'd been in Ranelaw's arms, Cassie had fallen ill. It was illogical, but she couldn't help connecting the two facts and blaming herself for her absence. "When I checked on her, she was sleeping peacefully."

"Well, she's not sleeping peacefully now." A hint of waspishness crept into Bella's voice. "You didn't check on her too well, did you?"

The maid's jockeying for position was too familiar for Antonia to pay attention. Instead she swept through the door into Cassie's room, her heart racing with trepidation.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Antonia took a few moments to distinguish Cassie huddled in the chair by the blazing fire. The girl had wrapped a shawl around her white cambric nightdress but even sitting so close to the hearth, she shivered.

"Cassie, darling," Antonia said softly, moving closer and peering through the gloom. "What's the matter?"

"Antonia, I feel awful," she said, and burst into tears. Antonia dropped to her knees and drew Cassie's quivering body into her arms.

"You're burning up," she said in dismay, glancing at Bella, who looked as bewildered as Antonia felt.

"But I'm c-cold," Cassie stammered, her teeth chattering. "So cold."

"Let's get you into bed." Carefully she helped her cousin to rise before turning to Bella. "Bella, get the maids to bring towels and water. We need to bathe Cassie and lower her temperature."

For all her dislike of Antonia, Bella looked relieved that someone took control. As Antonia supported a failing Cassie back to her tumbled bed, she worried that the maid's confidence was misplaced. This illness had come on so quickly and seemed so virulent, she felt helpless against it.

The next days blurred into sickroom duties. As Cassie's illness worsened, Antonia snatched what little sleep she could, leaving her charge under Bella's watchful eyes. Otherwise she was at the girl's bedside, cooling her fever, forcing liquid into her dehydrated frame, supporting her when she retched, talking to her with soft encouragement when she could do nothing else.

Around her, the household disintegrated into chaos. Whatever ailed Cassie was contagious. Most of the guests were confined to their rooms, and the few healthy staff were run off their feet. It was fortunate Antonia and Bella remained well enough to nurse Cassie.

The local doctor visited on a regular basis and every time, pronounced the illness a pernicious fever. Which meant precisely nothing. Antonia did learn, however, that a large number of local people had also been struck down.

Through wrenching anxiety-an anxiety that verged on panic when Antonia heard from a maid that three people in the village had died and more hovered at death's door-and weariness, she spared an occasional thought for Lord Ranelaw. Was he sick too? He seemed too invulnerable to succumb, but what did she know?

She plucked up courage to inquire of a maid how the other guests fared, hoping to garner news of him. But the girl was distracted, doing the work of several servants, and only informed her most of the household was sick, something Antonia already knew.

Perhaps Ranelaw had left. Any unaffected visitors had departed once the disaster's scale became obvious.

Perhaps she wouldn't see him again. If Cassie's recovery was slow, or-dear God, make it not so-if she didn't recover at all, Antonia had no reason to return to London and Ranelaw's wicked temptations.

She should be relieved to banish him from her life. It was a sad reflection on her character that her reaction wasn't so uncomplicated.

Because she operated in a haze of exhaustion, her days occupied with Cassie's care, those torrid moments by the stream receded, became like a dream. As if they happened to someone else or she'd witnessed them in a play. Compared to her struggle to save her cousin, even the passion and regret of that encounter lost their sting.

However Antonia slaved and fretted, Cassie's grip on life eased with every faint breath. How could such a young, vital woman sink so fast? This mysterious, seemingly invincible illness flooded Antonia with futile, acrid rage. Her rage was all that bolstered her strength as day trudged into day and Cassie became weaker and weaker.

Antonia was in an agony of indecision whether to send for Mr. Demarest. In the end, she decided if the fever took a fatal turn, Cassie would be dead long before her father arrived. Far better to struggle on with Bella's assistance and hope Cassie's vigor and youth brought her through.

All the time, she prayed. She prayed until words lost meaning.

Please, God, don't let Cassie die. Please, God, don't let Cassie die.

In spite of Antonia's tirade to heaven, Cassie's strength continued to ebb. Antonia could only assume that the Deity refused to heed entreaties from a miserable sinner like her.

Ranelaw strode toward Pelham Place from the stables. He entered through the servants' quarters. It was more convenient and he wasn't a man who stood on ceremony when ceremony served no purpose.

During his ramshackle childhood, the servants had seemed on the same social level as the family. In fact, the more superior servants had considered themselves several steps above the disreputable Challoners. Of course superior servants tended not to linger at Keddon Hall. The disorderly crowd of children and dogs and dependents, including his father's mistresses, didn't constitute a well-run household.

In contrast, as he tracked through the dim hallway toward the back stairs, Pelham Place was eerily quiet. It was five days since the majority of residents, upstairs and down, had succumbed to fever. The healthy had fled, leaving the household to the sick, those paid to look after them-and the Marquess of Ranelaw, who continued to enjoy the pink of health.

Clearly the devil looked after his own.

Two days ago, his valet had become unable to continue his duties. Again thanks to his unconventional upbringing, Ranelaw was more than capable of shifting for himself until the fellow was back on his feet. Although his idea of shifting for himself differed from Morecombe's. He glanced at his dull boots, usually polished to a shine, and a rueful smile curled his lips. Morecombe would have a fit if he could see him in his dirty boots, with his shirt open and no coat.

Ranelaw had tried to nurse the man, but Morecombe had been so horrified at the prospect, he'd suffered a relapse. So Ranelaw had retreated to what outdoor amusements he could find. He'd just enjoyed a brisk ride through the woods and now he headed upstairs to wash the dust away.

His hostess was well, but fully occupied with the afflicted, including several family members. Occasionally he encountered her, fluttering with distraction. She'd made it abundantly clear that she'd prefer he left, so the staff needn't worry about someone capable of taking himself elsewhere.

Ranelaw pretended not to notice.

Although good sense indicated he should cut his losses and return to London. From what he'd heard, the Demarest chit probably wouldn't survive to be ruined.

Now there was fate taking a drastic step to protect innocence.

It said something about his hopeless state that not seeing Antonia seemed considerably more important than his faltering quest for retribution. All very well to decide he'd seduce Miss Smith without compunction. He couldn't do it while she remained day and night at her charge's bedside.

As if to prove him wrong, he heard someone emerge from the scullery behind him. When he turned, he saw Antonia, carrying two pails of water.

"Antonia . " he said, for once in his life stuck for words.

"Lord Ranelaw."

She looked equally shocked to see him. She took a shaky step back, and water sloshed from the pails onto the dusty flagstones. She didn't just look shocked, she looked pale and weary to the point of collapse. That odd twinge in his chest made itself felt again.

Automatically he stepped forward to take her burden. "The maids should carry these."

His comment made her mouth firm in displeasure. "The maids are nearly all sick. I'm surprised you hadn't noticed." She cast a jaundiced eye over him. Clearly she'd had time since their last meeting to remind herself he was an irredeemable villain. "What are you doing here?"

Her sarcasm couldn't dampen his happiness at seeing her. He'd missed her, even her censure. "I've just come from the stables."

"No, why haven't you left? You must be the only able-bodied person who doesn't have to stay."

He shrugged. "You're here."

To his chagrin, the answer was nothing less than the truth. If he expected his admission to soften her attitude, he was disappointed.

"You should go back to London," she said flatly. "You're in the way and the servants have enough to do."

He laughed softly. If he was a vain man-he had many faults, but vanity didn't count among them-she'd wound him. "At this precise moment, I'm devilish useful. Shall I carry these upstairs?"

He saw her consider insisting she could manage. Then common sense kicked in. She gave a brief nod. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said with a hint of irony. He turned and carried the buckets along the corridor to the servants' staircase.

"You know your way around." Her tone implied criticism.

"So do you." He stepped aside to allow her to precede him up the uncarpeted wooden stairs.

"I'm a servant." He sought but didn't find resentment in the statement. Her voice sharpened and she cast him a disapproving glance under her lashes. "I hope you're not down here chasing the maids when they're so busy."

He burst out laughing then had to juggle the pails to stop them spilling. "You really don't like me much, do you?"

For once, he couldn't read her expression. "No, I don't."

He didn't bother pointing out that her claim sounded less than convincing. He knew she found him attractive.

The feeling was mutual.

Even now when she looked tired enough to fall over.

When they reached the first landing, he set down the buckets with a thud and caught her arm. He expected her to pull free. After all, their last encounter had ended on a sour note and he couldn't blame her for considering him both a brute and a lunatic. He'd had five days to regret his actions beside the stream and because of this damned epidemic, no chance to ameliorate the barbarous impression he'd left.

"You're running yourself ragged." He sounded angry instead of concerned. Not that he was concerned. He just didn't like to see her looking so tired.

"Of course I am," she snapped, staring up at him out of blue eyes dull with weariness.

He suddenly realized what was different. She wasn't wearing her spectacles. She must have decided anyone who might penetrate her disguise wasn't likely to be wandering about this charnel house.

She wore a brown dress of some coarse stuff with a stained pinafore over the top. Somehow the costume only emphasized her natural distinction. Again his instincts screamed there was more to Miss Antonia Smith than Miss Antonia Smith let on.

"Doesn't Cassie have a maid for the heavy work?" He didn't want to identify the sensation in his gut as rage on Antonia's behalf, but he couldn't attribute the response to anything else.

Antonia still stared at him as though he were mad. "Yes, Miss Demarest does. Bella works as hard as I do."

He didn't miss her emphasis on formal address but he ignored it. He was only interested in Antonia. "You'll get sick yourself if you don't rest. You look terrible."

"Thank you," she said dryly, moving forward to lift one of the pails. "I can manage from here."

He sighed and wondered where the hell his famous charm had buggered off to. Usually he could woo a woman using words alone. With Antonia, all he seemed to do was put his foot in it.

Easily he angled her out of the way and picked up the second pail. "You know what I mean." She relinquished the other pail without resistance. Her docility was yet another sign of exhaustion.

She cast him a sharp glance. "I do believe you're attempting in your ham-fisted way to express concern, Lord Ranelaw. How astonishing."

He was hellishly grateful to see her spirit return. For a moment there, she'd looked as though life held neither hope nor happiness. He hated seeing her crushed and defeated.

"Of course I'm bloody concerned," he admitted roughly, stamping up the stairs. "I'm not a complete savage."

He knew without looking that she followed. "I'm touched."

"I want you alive and well so I can roger you," he growled. "And don't tell me to be quiet. There's nobody to listen in this mausoleum and even if they could, they've got better things to do than worry about what you and I get up to."

"I wasn't going to," she said calmly. "Although you had the chance to seduce me and let it pass."

Astonishment blasted him. He could hardly credit she brought up those fraught moments with such a casual air. They hadn't felt casual to him. Damn the chit. He didn't understand her.

"Sheer madness," he muttered, shouldering his way through a plain door to the corridor outside Cassandra's bedroom. "I can't believe you're holding that against me. Believe me, madam, you won't escape next time."

He waited for some deflating remark about never letting it happen again. But she kept silent. She really wasn't herself. Once more that sharp little twinge.

"Where do you want these?" His voice was still rough. "Your room or Cassie's?"

"How do you . " She stopped and stepped forward to open the door to her room. "I suppose you bribed the servants again. It's a good thing you're one of the richest men in the kingdom and you can afford all this chicanery."

She didn't sound outraged. She sounded as though she expected nothing better of him. She almost sounded . fond.

Silly girl. One shouldn't be fond of a hungry tiger. One should be terrified.

Right now, he didn't feel like a tiger. He felt like a man incapable of offering aid to the woman he . desired. He felt left out and bereft and furious that the brief moment of her company was almost over.