Surely not.

Nicholas didn't love her. No matter that his attempt to shoot Johnny indicated he cared for her more than she'd realized.

Her frantic mind continued to arrange facts into new patterns. There was so much she hadn't seen, hadn't reckoned with.

In the end, Nicholas hadn't been able to go through with kidnapping Cassie, had he? Or killing Johnny.

Antonia had long ago recognized that he meant to be considerably more ruthless than he was. If he was truly the conscienceless rake of legend, he'd have seduced her the night he broke into her bedroom. Seduced her, then blackmailed her to get to Cassie.

He'd done neither. Poignant emotion stabbed her as she remembered that night. His treatment of her had demonstrated a piercingly sweet chivalry.

He was flawed, he was occasionally wrong, his intentions toward Cassie, toward her, had been black with wickedness. But in the end, he couldn't bring himself to play the complete villain.

She'd often wondered if he was a better man than she thought. Now she recognized that a reluctant hero skulked inside the Marquess of Ranelaw. A hero she'd fallen in love with, in spite of everything she told herself she believed about him.

Her heart had been wiser than she'd credited, after all.

Antonia drew a shuddering breath and in that instant, forgave him freely and absolutely for how he'd hurt her. She just prayed she got the chance to tell him.

"Nicholas, you're a bigger fool than I thought," she muttered, raising his slack hand and pressing it to her sticky cheek. Her throat was so tight, speaking was painful.

His silence crushed her heart. He'd drifted beyond reach. Horrible certainty burgeoned that she was too late. She'd sit here until his last breath seeped away.

It was too much to bear. She bent her head and sobbed, kissing his hand again and again as though her lips could restore life. She'd forgo all the years remaining to her if Nicholas opened his eyes.

"Don't die. Please don't die. Don't leave me." Then in a burst, shaking with feeling, "I'll do anything you want. I'll be your mistress. As long as you want, as publicly as you want. I can't go on without you. You made me live again."

She paused for a ragged breath. Again she spoke, although she realized he couldn't hear. The words were for her sake. Words she'd never said when she'd so frantically raised barriers against him. Barriers that had crumbled the moment he touched her. And he knew it, the rogue.

Please, God, let him live to know it again.

Her voice vibrated with emotion. "You've won. You won long ago. I surrender unconditionally. No more resistance. No more denials."

He remained utterly still, his face pale and peaceful. The peace jarred. Her beloved wasn't a peaceful man.

Antonia's last hope drained away. Excruciating pain lanced her heart.

Right alongside Nicholas, she died by inches. Because the best part of her died with him. The part she'd struggled against acknowledging because it was too wayward and passionate. The part that transformed her into a creature of light and flame. The part that had loved Nicholas first, although love for him now permeated every cell.

She rose on her knees and kissed his lips. He didn't respond. She couldn't bear this. He always responded to her kisses.

In an unstoppable wave, the last, most agonizing confession escaped. "I love you, Nicholas. I will always love you. You will be in my heart the day I die." Then on a final whisper, "God bless you, my darling. God bless you through eternity."

Still nothing.

She lowered her head to his shoulder and wept as her heart cracked into a thousand pieces.

Antonia's frantic pleas made Ranelaw burn. But he was so damned weak, he could only lie still as a stone while she cried over him as though she loved him.

She loved him.

He'd wandered in from the blackness as he would from a riotous night on the town. Not sure if he'd stay at home or return to his carousing. He'd felt the clasp of Antonia's hand. He'd heard the choked anguish in her voice as she begged him to live.

Had she knocked him out with the poker again? Beautiful, fierce dragon.

Then he'd tumbled back into night. The erratic blackness that pursued him wasn't quiet. It was peopled with his ghosts. His chaotic family. Eloise glaring at him in accusation. Cassie, who had proven so unexpectedly valiant.

Most of all Antonia. Passionate, vital Antonia.

The woman he loved. The woman who loathed him.

It made no sense that she pleaded with him not to leave her. Two days ago, she hadn't cared whether he took another breath.

She loved him .

During his unruly career, many women had proclaimed their love. This was the first time the truth of the words speared his heart. This was the first time he wanted to return the vow with the same sincere simplicity.

She was so generous, his darling. More generous than he deserved. More wonderful and lovely and good than any man deserved. Although he'd make bloody sure he lived to see she squandered that bounty on him.

He was just such a conscienceless blackguard.

As awareness gradually returned, a chaos of sensations assailed him. Her sticky tears. The ragged sobs. The tingling memory of her lips on his skin.

His side hurt like hell. Like someone poked him with a red-hot iron. Slowly, imperceptibly, he struggled to lift his arm. The movement tugged on his wound and a low, agonized groan escaped.

She jerked up. Immediately he missed the soft press of her body. "Nicholas?"

He felt her shift. The slightest jarring of the mattress shot pain screaming through him. He didn't care as long as she stayed.

Her voice was choked. "I'll fetch the doctors."

Damn it, he didn't want those quacks. He wanted Antonia. Most of all he wanted Antonia to say she loved him. So he could be sure pain-addled fantasy alone hadn't conjured the declaration.

Thank God, she registered his inarticulate protest. She stayed where she was.

Slowly, as though he hoisted a full-grown oak tree with one hand, he forced his eyelids upward. In the gloom, her face swam into sight. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes were swollen with weeping. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

"Beauti . " he forced from stiff lips.

She misunderstood and rose, disappearing from view. He was too weak to turn his head and watch her. Damn it, he yearned to seize her in his arms, yet he couldn't summon strength to move his little finger. Another growl escaped, this time of frustration.

He listened to the clink of glass across the room then, thank God, she came back. Very gently, she slid a hand under his head and trickled water across his lips. He bit back a stab of agony at the movement. Liquid dribbled over his chin and his gut knotted in humiliation. This wasn't how he wanted her to see him.

"Nicholas, please don't die," she said brokenly, wiping his lips with the sheet.

"How . "

Her eyes glowed with a light that looked like love, and the pain in his side receded a mite. She worked magic. "I fought through a wall of monsters to get here, my darling."

My darling?

"Not . " He stopped and sucked in a breath, then was sorry when his wound protested the movement of his ribs. "Die . "

"If you do, I'll hunt you down in Hades," she said with a determination that reminded him how she'd threatened to shoot him.

It seemed perverse to cherish that memory, but he did. He'd chosen an indomitable woman. Life with her wouldn't be easy but, Lord above, it would be exciting. No milk-and-water miss for his marchioness. He'd marry this virago and sire a dynasty of hellions. The prospect shot tingling life through limbs that moments ago had been fit only for a shroud.

She dripped more water between his parched lips. Eagerly he lapped at the coolness. He was as dry as the bloody Sahara. Dear God, he felt like overweight elephants waltzed all over him. Surely his last bullet wound hadn't been this painful.

He forced another word. "Love . "

Through the dimness, he saw her color rise. The pink in her cheeks was delicious. She was delicious.

"You were awake for that, were you?"

He tried to tell her with his eyes how he hungered to hear those words once more. She glanced down in sudden shyness, then met his gaze squarely.

"I love you, Nicholas Challoner." The vow emerged steadily, firmly, without demur.

He closed his eyes against stabbing emotion. His eyes burned and his throat constricted. What a blockhead. The Marquess of Ranelaw never cried.

Her hand closed hard around his. "Nicholas, I swear if you die, I'll shoot you myself."

That's my girl.

Still something worried him. "Forgive . "

Her hand tightened. Strength and vigor flowed into him, making him feel a hundred times stronger.

"I forgive you for snatching Cassie. I even understand why you did it. You're misguided, of course, but not beyond redemption."

If he'd had possession of all his faculties, he'd laugh. Misguided? Yes, that was one way to describe his sins. She turned his rash, dangerous quest for vengeance into a mere peccadillo.

"Not shoot . " Good God, he hurtled toward recovery. He managed two words consecutively.

Her lips curved in a misty smile. "I won't shoot you today, at least."

"Risk here . "

She shrugged. "I couldn't let you die."

"Not die." A long pause while the pain in his side scaled giddy heights. "Live."

Dizziness distorted his vision. Two sentences clearly sapped his strength. His last words emerged as a hoarse whisper. "With . you."

"Yes."

She pressed a fervent kiss to his knuckles. Then she leaned forward and brushed her lips across his. His overflowing heart leaped at that fleeting contact.

Through the pounding in his head, he wondered what she made of his last statement. He suspected she pictured an arrangement considerably less binding than the one he had in mind.

Bad luck for her.

There would be times, he knew, when she'd be sorry he'd claimed her. That didn't mean he'd ever set her free. She'd had her chance to escape and she hadn't taken it.

He struggled to muster fading strength. She needed to know she was his forever.

"As . wife."

She'd tame the dissolute rake into a respectable married man. He could hardly wait.

"Nicholas . " she said in a faint voice, although she didn't withdraw her hand. "Don't make promises you'll regret when you're more yourself."

Did she but know it, he was more himself now than he'd ever been. Through the discordant symphony of pain, he squeezed her hand. He probably managed little more than a tiny shift of his fingers, but in his imagination, he grabbed her hand with all the purpose in his soul.

"Marry." A cold sweat broke out. His wound hurt like a hundred demons prodded him with pitchforks. His vision turned hazy. He struggled to focus on her face.

He was accounted a brave man but the truth was he just hadn't cared. At this moment, he cared more than life. He needed every ounce of courage to speak.

"Love . you." Pain crescendoed with cymbals and trumpets and drums. "Marry . me."

Blackness swelled, strong and inexorable as the tide. He couldn't resist its power. Before the dark swallowed him, he heard her speak. Over the stormy rush of blood in his ears, over the thundering agony in his side.

"Yes, Nicholas, I'll marry you."

Good.

He was almost sure he didn't speak the word aloud. But her hand firmed on his in silent acknowledgment. His Antonia held him fast against death. If need be, she'd drag him screaming back to life.

She was his life.

Epilogue.

Connemara December 1827 The convent's parlor was no more welcoming than its gray granite exterior. The only concession to comfort was a small fire in the mean little grate, although the warmth hardly penetrated the winter cold. No flowers or cushions softened the room. The sole decoration was a plain wooden crucifix above the door.

Shivering, Antonia sank onto one of the oak chairs ranged against the wall. She watched her husband pace the flagstone floor like a cantankerous tiger.

Nicholas bristled with hostile edginess. All day he'd been in an odd mood. Longer than that, since the moment she'd convinced him to undertake this journey. Last night when they'd made love, he'd been wild and desperate, almost as wild and desperate as during their first time in the summerhouse. Wicked creature that she was, his unrestrained hunger had thrilled her to the bone.

"They won't let her see us," he said grimly, pausing near one of the tiny barred windows on the far side of the room. It was an overcast day and the cold light shone stark on his moody expression.

"It's not an enclosed order, Nicholas. The sisters are allowed visitors," she said steadily, as she'd said a hundred times before. "Eloise wrote that she was delighted you were coming to the convent."