He set the candle upon the small table by her bed. Enough was enough. He sat down beside her, still not touching her.

"A whore," he whispered to the empty room and the sleeping woman. "The most appealing woman I've ever known in my life, and she's a bloody whore." He laughed.

Lily heard that laugh. It wasn't part of her dream, it was real. It was here, with her. Her eyes flew open. She turned her head slightly on her pillow and saw him.

"Knight?" How odd that he was here, sitting on her bed, smiling down at her. No, he was laughing. Surely that was strange. Had she said something amusing and not realized it? Was she still dreaming? "Are you truly here?" She raised her hand to his face, then dropped it. "Oh, dear, is something wrong? The children?"

"Hello, my dear Lily. Yes, I'm here, and no, nothing's wrong."

He was here in her bedchamber, in his dressing gown. "No! What are you doing here? Surely-" She broke off as she struggled to sit up.

Knight grabbed her shoulders and pressed her back down. "Oh, no, Lily, I want you on your back."

She stared up at him, confusion written clearly in her eyes. "I don't understand you. What are you doing here? You promise nothing is wrong?"

He didn't laugh this time, but his lips twisted in a parody of a smile. He didn't release his hold on her shoulders. "Nothing at all, dear Lily. I'm here to test out a theory, no more."

"What theory?"

Ah, that incredible bewildered, innocent look. "You do that so well, Lily. Perhaps you could give acting lessons to the opera girls."

She didn't understand him; his words made no sense. "Are you foxed, Knight?"

"Nary a bit. It perhaps would have been better had I drunk myself into oblivion, but I didn't. No, I wanted to see, to understand, to know the results of my experiment. Now, my dear, I want to look at you."

Something was very wrong. This man wasn't the Knight Winthrop she knew. But then again, that bitter, sarcastic man who'd insulted her endlessly and quite thoroughly earlier in the library wasn't either. She wasn't afraid, but she wished that he would say something sensible. His eyes were narrowed and the gold lights in them were pronounced in the candlelight. His fox's eyes, Mrs. Crumpe had called them. He was looking at her, looking beneath her lawn nightgown, and she understood then his intent. She sucked in her breath. "No," she said quite clearly. "Go away, Knight."

"Not this time, Lily. Now-" Suddenly without warning, he ripped the front of her gown from her throat to her waist. He yanked the material apart. She heaved and struggled frantically against him, but it was no good. He simply held her until she was too tired to fight him.

There was fear in her eyes now, but he refused to be drawn in by it. That, too, was an act. There wasn't a single thing real about her save her passion. At least that was what he believed, what he intended to prove. He grabbed her wrists and jerked them above her head. Then he stared down at her breasts. "Those gowns you wear, Lily, they really don't do you justice. Your breasts are quite nice, you know, full and so white, and your nipples, a very soft, dusky pink." He wanted to touch her, to take her into his mouth. But no, he had to retain control.

"Stop it, Knight. Why are you doing this? I'm not a whore-please, you must let me explain."

"Ah, very nice, Lily. You have something you wish to explain to me? You had all the opportunity in the world this afternoon in the library. But you didn't say a single word, deny a single thing, did you? Now, where was I? Oh, yes, your lovely breasts. They're not that large, but your shape, Lily, and the texture of your flesh-let me see about the texture-" He held her wrists with one hand, and with his other hand he touched his fingers to her breast. His eyes didn't leave her face.

A deep, raw cry ripped from her throat. "No, you can't do this, Knight. You cannot force me."

"Force you? You mean rape you? Of course I shan't. It isn't my style. Not at all. I believe I already told you that. Oh, no, Lily, you like this, don't you? Soon you will be babbling, you will want me to touch you so much." His fingers were on her breasts, and she saw in his eyes that he wasn't going to stop. He was utterly determined on his course. She went berserk. She bucked, pulling against his hold, kicking up wildly with her legs. "Let me go, Knight. Damn you, go away! I shall scream, I promise I shall-"

His hand left her breast and came down firmly over her mouth. He leaned close, his face but a breath away from hers. "No, you won't, Lily. I'm going to kiss you now and you'll want me again, as you did that night in the carriage. Hush now, Lily, and just see what I'll make you feel."

She felt his warm breath on her cheek, saw the male harshness in his eyes, and felt a spasm of utter terror. Oh, God, no, she thought, and wildly twisted her head away. But his hand clasped her jaw, hard, and jerked her face back, holding her still. "I'm not a whore, Knight," she said, but it didn't matter. It was as if he were beyond her, beyond understanding her. His mouth was covering hers now, warm and firm. She felt his tongue lightly stroking over her lips. She moaned her protest and he shuddered at the sound. She had to stop this; she had to make him see reason. His hold on her jaw loosened and she jerked away, yelling, "No!"

"Damn you," he said, fury and cold purpose filling his voice. He rolled over on top of her to keep her still and found her mouth again. He held her arms away from her body and she felt his full weight. He wasn't gentle now, nor undemanding. He deepened the pressure of his mouth, and his sex strained hard against her belly. He pressed downward, then forward, in a parody of the sex act, and at the same time his tongue slipped into her mouth, thrusting forward, then withdrawing. Again and again he did it, and she thought: It's Knight doing this, it's Knight making me feel empty and hot and wanting, and it's so incredibly erotic I can't bear it.

Knight knew the instant she responded to him. He knew what was making her wild and he took immediate advantage. "Lily," he said into her mouth. He clasped her wrist and brought her arm down as he rolled off her. He pulled her hand on his belly. "Touch me, Lily. This is what you do to me." Her fingers brushed against him and his hips jerked despite his intentions. Suddenly her fingers tried to close about him through the thick velvet of the dressing gown. He felt intense frustration and groaned deep in his throat. He pulled back the dressing gown, then guided her hand to him again.

Lily couldn't believe what she was doing, what she wanted to do, what she was aching to do. Her fingers touched the alien male flesh, so hot and hard and smooth. She shuddered, her body quivering as her fingers explored him. She was frightened of his maleness, his strangeness, the size of him, and yet so excited she felt her own body trying to move toward him, to rub against him, to draw him inside her, into her.

He suddenly shoved her hand away. "Stop," he whispered. "You're too skilled, damn you." He came down over her again, his mouth covering hers, his tongue instantly demanding entrance, and she gave it to him.

Skilled at what? She didn't care, not about anything except him and what he was doing to her, what he was making her feel.

He was touching her cheek, her nose, her throat. She wanted more, but she didn't know what it was she wanted. She felt a throbbing ache between her thighs and quivered. He reveled in the fact that it was he who was responsible. He settled himself between her legs.

"Wider, Lily. Open your legs wider."

She obeyed him without hesitation, without thought. Again he thrust toward her, and now there was only her ripped nightgown between them.

She was beyond herself now and he knew it. She was crying out, helpless cries into his mouth, and they filled him with triumph and a fierce joy that he denied. He leaned back, his sex hard against her, and he pushed and heaved and she opened her eyes, stared up at him, and whimpered. Her hands were on his shoulders, jerking at his dressing gown.

"No, Lily." He couldn't let her undress him. He would lose to her, he knew it. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let her win. Quickly he rolled off her onto his side. She moaned his name, trying to turn toward him, find him, bring him back to her. Her hands were on his face, his shoulders, closing over his arms.

He kissed her again, deeply, and his hand went over her breasts and he felt the furious pounding of her heart, the ripplings of her flesh, her need. He splayed his fingers and rested his open hand on her belly. He felt the tension in her muscles, knowing that she was trapped now in her need. He had her. She was completely under his control. He'd won.

"Lily, look at me. Open your eyes. I want to see your face when I touch you. I want you to know I'm looking at you when I touch you."

Pleasure was pulsing through her body, pushing her, swamping her, and when she opened her eyes, she saw the intent look in his, the male triumph, not part of her but distant, controlling. "No-oh, please, no, Knight-" She couldn't allow this to happen, she couldn't. Why was he doing this to her? "Please, Knight-"

"Please what, Lily?" he said into her mouth. He deliberately brought his hand back up and lightly laid it against her breast. He saw the disappointment in her eyes, felt her hips lifting, searching, and he smiled. "You're very passionate, Lily, and now you're mine. Don't you like this?" His tongue stroked hers and at the same time his fingers lightly touched her breast. She cried out into his mouth. And felt his triumph, his immense male pleasure and satisfaction, and she hated herself and her body for its betrayal, but she'd never before imagined anything like this-when Tris had kissed her, she'd felt nothing, not a single stirring. But with Knight, she shivered even as the errant thoughts spun about in her head. His hand was firmer on her breast now, caressing her with skilled fingers, cupping her, lifting her, and suddenly his mouth left hers and closed over her nipple.

It was too much. Her back arched up and she moaned, deep in her throat. "That's it, Lily. Yes, that's it." Had he truly been in control, he would have stopped at this point.

As he suckled with his mouth, his hand found her other breast. He felt her heartbeat, galloping more wildly now, and for a brief instant he raised his face to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her head arched back against the pillow, her expression one of nearly painful pleasure. God, she was so beautiful. No, he wouldn't look at her again until he was certain he could handle it. It was a mistake. She was just another woman, another body, immensely desirable but nothing more. His hand went down to touch her waist, then flattened across her belly. She squirmed against him. He smiled, a cruel smile.

"Do you want me, Lily?"

She choked down a cry and he saw her hands in fists at her sides, wound around the bedcovers. "Touch me, Lily."

He willed her to open her eyes, and when she did, he commanded again, "Touch me, Lily."

Slowly she raised her hands and lightly touched them to his shoulders. Just that simple touch, not even on his naked body but on his bloody dressing gown, nearly did him in. He quickly encircled her wrists with his hands and pressed them back down to the bed.

"How do you feel, Lily?"

"I don't know." It was a wail, shrill, filled with frustration. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide and dilated, wild and frustrated.

His eyes still on her face, he moved his hand over her belly, then gently cupped his palm against her.

Her eyes narrowed as her body welcomed him. "Knight-"

"Don't close your eyes."

She opened them.

"Now, tell me what you want. Tell me what you feel."

His fingers left her for just a moment. He ripped the nightgown a bit lower. "Tell me, Lily." His fingers found her and lightly pressed. Such triumph he felt. God, it was the most powerful feeling in the world.

He was astounded at the depth and quickness of her response. She nearly spun away from him in that moment, after he'd touched her for only a few seconds. Quickly he lifted his fingers, watching her face, watching her slowly open her eyes again and gaze at him in confusion and in something like desperation. He waited a bit longer; then his fingers stroked over her again.

"Knight-"

"Yes, Lily? That pleases you, doesn't it? You're so soft, Lily, and swelled and damp for me, just for me. Here, see? This is you, Lily." Lightly he touched his fingers to her cheek so she could feel her own dampness. She shuddered, and he felt his own body nearly explode in response.

He was very careful this time not to push her into her climax. He teased her, his skilled fingers stroked her, and knew that she was close, but he would be the one to decide what she received, and when.

Then, suddenly, her thighs parted and her hips pushed upward against his fingers, seeking, beyond pride, beyond anything, wanting only completion. He left her and just as quickly eased his middle finger into her. Oh, God. She was hot and tight and very small, and he groaned with the pleasure of it.

No, he couldn't. He had to get hold of himself again. He wouldn't let her affect him like this.

He brought his fingers down on her again and smiled painfully. Familiar territory, he thought, his movements rhythmic, light, then deep, teasing, then rough. He felt her climax building, reveled in the wild jerking of her hips, the stiffening of her legs, the uncontrollable cries tearing from her throat. At just the moment when she would have exploded in her climax, he left her.

He quickly rose to stand beside the bed. His chest heaved as he looked down at her. Her gown was split open to her thighs. He gazed at the expanse of smooth white flesh, her flat belly, and the beautiful dark blond hair. God, she was exquisite and so responsive.

She was twisting, arching upward, still beyond herself, and now she was crying, softly, helplessly. He tried to keep away from her. But he couldn't. He couldn't bear it.

"All right, damn you." He didn't stretch out beside her again, he couldn't. He sat there, one hand pressed down on her belly, holding her still, the other finding her again. Then he looked at her face. She stared at him and went unseeing as he brought her to climax. She screamed and he quickly covered her mouth. God, it was nearly too much. She was heaving against his fingers, trembling wildly. Still she stared at him even as she reached the height of her pleasure, and he felt her then, became a part of her for a brief instant.

It seemed to him as if an eternity passed. Slowly, very slowly, she began to quiet. He felt ripples go through her, gentle spasms and aftershocks of now fading pleasure.

He saw her eyes gradually clear. She was looking up at him now, really seeing him this time. She was herself again, apart from him, apart from his control.

He smiled down at her, a cruel smile, a very satisfied smile. "Next time, Lily, next time I'll have my mouth on you. Imagine my tongue stroking you instead of my fingers. You'll go crazy for it, Lily, and you'll beg me and beg me."

She shuddered at his words and he knew she was very nearly feeling his mouth covering her, caressing her. In the next moment, he saw that her mind had cleared and she was now understanding what he'd done to her.

She said nothing. She simply stared at him, mute, unmoving.

"You won't be a successful whore, my dear Lily."

Still she just stared at him, her expression unreadable to him.

"No, as I told you earlier, a whore is cold, very cold. She needs to be so that she can control the man, gain her ends. But you, Lily, you are passionate, and a man would kill to claim your passion. But he wouldn't make you rich, oh, no. You see, he wouldn't have to. All he'd have to do is touch you and you'd go crazy wanting him to pleasure you. Everything would be free. Perhaps, Lily, if you are very kind to me, I will make you my mistress. Since I know who and what you are now, since there won't ever again be lies between us, we shouldn't have many difficulties. Would you like to be my mistress, Lily?"

Her lips moved, but there was no sound.

"Wouldn't you like to feel my sex inside you, Lily? I'd fill you, you know that, since you touched me and held me in your hand, and I'd drive you to such pleasure, stronger than what you just experienced. And my mouth, Lily. I'll give you more pleasure than Tris did. But then again, you've been several months without a man, haven't you? I know Ugly Arnold didn't count. You do have some standards, after all.

"You've become a mute? Haven't you tamped down on your passion yet? Do you want more? Well, I'm still hard for a woman. Any woman would do, naturally. But I'll give you more if you wish it, Lily. I'm a generous man."

Very slowly, she sat up. She clutched her nightgown together over her breasts. She closed her eyes against the pain, the deadening humiliation. She heard him continue in that hateful, sarcastic voice. "Well, now you're beginning to bore me. I don't care for too much conversation in a woman, but a little wouldn't be remiss. Let me know in the morning, Lily. Perhaps I'll still be interested. Perhaps next time I'll even come inside you, though I would like to know how many men have preceded me before I do so."

He turned to leave her bedchamber. In the next instant, a half-filled water carafe hit him hard between his shoulder blades. Knight stumbled, then whirled about.

He had no time to react, no time to think.

"You bastard!"

She was flying toward him, her shredded nightgown flowing like ghostly wrapping around her, her hair wild about her face. He saw her swing her arm, but everything was in a blur, a moment of disbelief, a fragment of a dream.

With all her strength, Lily smashed her fist into his jaw. Pain exploded through his head. He was off-balance and went careening backward. She smashed her fist into his belly, all the while yelling at him over and over. "Bastard! Unfeeling, damnable bastard!"

He slipped on the carpet in front of the fireplace and fell, striking his head on the corner of the mantelpiece.

He went down like a stone.

Lily stood over him, breathing hard, shaking her fist as the pain intensified in her now raw knuckles. "I hate you, damn you, I hate you." She dropped to her knees and placed the flat of her hand over his heart.

It was strong and steady. "Nothing would kill you, you miserable, obnoxious, half-witted-"

Lily drew in a deep breath. She rose and stared down at him. Then she smiled. She rolled and shoved until he was sprawled in the middle of a smaller carpet that lay in front of the wing chair. She tugged and pulled and heaved on the carpet. She dragged him from her bedchamber, stopping every few steps to regain her breath. By the time she'd gotten him outside his bedchamber, her arms were aching. She dropped the end of the carpet and stood straight.

The master suite, she thought, looking at the closed door. Some master. She left him lying there in the corridor, sprawled on his back, his dressing gown open to his hairy thighs, unconscious as the dead. She returned to her room, yanked two blankets from her bed, and went back to him. "You ought to die from nastiness, not from a stupid chill." She flung the blankets over him, wiped her hands in what was a grand gesture for her own private audience, then gathered her torn nightgown about herself, strode back to her bedchamber, and locked the door.

She was asleep in ten minutes.

Fourteen.

"My lord!"

Knight awoke with a start at the sound of the high, shocked voice.

He cocked open an eye and saw Stromsoe bending over him. Odd that he was over him. He realized suddenly that he was very stiff and cold and that he was stretched out on his back on the hard wooden floor. He sat up abruptly. A pain thudded heavily in his jaw, another pain sliced through his head, and he tentatively rubbed his fingertips over the back of his skull. He came away with some blood on his fingertips. The place over his temple where Boy's bullet had grazed began to throb. He was a mess, a complete and utterly absurd mess.

"My lord. What are you doing here, in the corridor? I don't understand-I-"

"Be still, Stromsoe. I'm dying, or at least considering it." As he rubbed his aching jaw, then his aching head, every event of the previous evening trooped through his brain. The last troop he saw was the blur of Lily's fist, and he said, "My God, what a superb uppercut she has."

"What did you say, my lord? Superb what? Are your wits-well, my lord-"

"Stromsoe, shut your trap. Help me up. Lord, I'm stiff as a fat lady's corset."

"No wonder to that, my lord, if you slept all night on the floor. How did you get there? The blankets?"

"Interesting question, isn't it? Well, no answers for you, Stromsoe. Indeed," he added under his breath, "I don't have all the answers either." So Lily, in a spate of not wanting to see him frozen to death, threw blankets over him? He smiled, but it was painful. His jaw, his head, his back, all hurt like the very devil. If she'd wanted revenge-and only a long-suffering saint wouldn't have-she'd gotten it.

"A hot bath," he told Stromsoe as he walked slowly into his bedchamber, his valet flapping behind him. "A lot of very hot water to steam out all my evil humors." He plowed his fingers through his messed hair, accidentally brushed against the bump, and winced. As he lowered his hand, he caught her scent. He closed his eyes, suddenly remembering the look in her eyes as her pleasure took her over, hearing her cry out, feeling her move against his fingers. "Oh, God." He whirled about just as Stromsoe was leaving.

"Have you seen Mrs. Winthrop this morning?"

"No, my lord."