"I'm talking about marriage."

Good God, was she was proposing to him? Could it be suddenly be this easy?

"You could marry one of the Smythe twins."

Apparently not. He arched his eyebrows in what he hoped was a quelling manner.

"Perhaps not them. You can certainly do better than the daughter of a country gentleman. It's absurd how they dangle after you, really."

"I'm not talking about rank!" he protested. "I'm taking about-"

"Suitability," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I concede there, too, though Gillian is more intelligent than she initially appears. My point is merely that, after you apprehend Manning and this French spy, and your work is done, it would seem only natural that you would want to marry."

"Why? Natural how?" He spoke gruffly, but could not help himself.

"Since we are speaking freely, allow me to point out the obvious. You are an earl. You are capable of being charming, when you choose to be. And, I gather from my time here that you are not, in fact, the impoverished aristocrat you claimed to be. The estate seems to run very smoothly, and from what I've seen of the farms, none of the tenants is suffering."

He winced, unable to meet her eyes. Another lie come to light.

"And," she added, "from certain angles, you are handsome."

From certain angles? He wondered how the conversation arrived at the point where they were discussing his qualities as if he were a chit on the marriage mart. "While I thank you for your concern, I assure you that you have quite misinterpreted my, ah, attributes."

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes as she regarded him. "I don't believe I have."

"I am an aristocrat, of course. I cannot argue the circumstances of my birth. What I said about the condition of the estate had been true. It was in bad shape when I inherited. But Bailey, with his unparalleled head for business, has provided excellent counsel, and I've been able to invest my profits into shoring up the estate. So, yes, rich. But I would make a perfectly awful husband otherwise." It wasn't lost on him that, as he laid out the reasons he was unfit to marry someone like Gillian Smythe, he wasn't helping his cause with Emily. Would she remember this conversation when she was his countess? "I am contrary. Independent-perhaps too much so. I'm also a cripple."

"Oh, I don't think of you as crippled." She waved her hand to dismiss the idea. "You're just using that as an excuse."

He sucked in a breath, forcing himself to attend the rest of her rejoinder.

"You are rather contrary. But perhaps some women don't mind. The Smythe twins are certainly agreeable, if nothing else. It's hard to be contrary with someone who will always agree with you."

"What do you mean you don't think of me as crippled?"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Emily clapped one hand over her mouth. She was interpreting his brusque tone as anger, or hurt. In truth, he didn't know himself what it signified. "I didn't mean to speak of it so dismissively. I have offended you, which was not my intent."

"No, I would simply like to know how it is that you can deny what is right in front of you." He tapped his injured forearm sharply with his good hand, stopping short of waving the stump in her face as he had that day at the lake.

She looked down at her lap for a long moment. Then she raised her head and trained her sapphire eyes directly on his. "I merely mean that your injury seems like part of you." As soon as the sentence was out, she shook her head in frustration. "That sounds ridiculous doesn't it? What I'm trying to say is that sometimes one sees the war wounded and cannot help but be almost distracted by their injuries. With you it seems more like your injury is an innate trait, like your dark hair. It seems natural somehow, like it's part of you."

His eyes began to prickle. Though the injury didn't interfere a great deal with his life, he had to admit he let it stand between him and other people. He did so willingly-being the injured, aloof ex-soldier helped maintain the persona he needed to do his work. But the result was the same. He stood apart from others, alone and damaged. Emily's words were so humane. He was unaccountably grateful to know that when she looked at him, it wasn't the injury she saw first.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, anguish in her voice. "I should not have spoken of it."

He cleared his throat. "No, it's all right. You are very kind. I don't speak of it, but the injury is with me all the time."

"I had no idea," she said. "You carry yourself so well."

"I don't just mean physically." He lay back on the carpet so he could speak without having to watch her reaction.

Being a spy was about rising to the circumstances-to unflinchingly do what needed to be done, without regard for morality or sentiment. Emily Mirren, he'd told himself, was like any other target. His job was to assess how best to manipulate her. That his motivation was her own protection and not that of king and country, was not a distinction that signified.

But she deserved the truth before he did what he had to do. And so it was time to unravel the final lie. She deserved to know who he really was. That her suffering had been his fault.

A deep breath bought him a moment to collect his thoughts, though he could feel her watching him. "This injury takes me back to Badajoz and so is a constant reminder that I am alive and that your father is dead."

Ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he plunged forward. "Your father was gravely injured early in the siege. I found him, pinned under a horse. There was also a boy there, the youngest soldier in our company-the one who painted that awful miniature of you." He squeezed his eyes shut, heart racing. "I could only save one of them."

He heard a rustling, opened his eyes, and turned to see her reclining next to him. She arranged herself parallel to him, but allowed a good foot of distance between them. Tears flowed from her eyes, unchecked. "You did the right thing saving the boy," she whispered, offering a small smile even as she wept. "It wasn't your fault. I imagine my father ordered you to save the boy."

But he could not forgive as easily as she. "If I had chosen differently, your father would be alive," he said quietly. He wanted to brush away her tears, but he didn't dare. "You wouldn't be here now. Manning would never have-"

It was she who reached out and brushed away his tears, tears he hadn't realized had begun to fall, tracing a thumb carefully underneath each eye, stopping him midsentence. Her hands were cool against his heated cheeks.

"You can't know that," she said. "None of us can say what would have happened. To choose differently would have been unthinkable." She gave a little sob, but checked herself, swallowing it. He reached for her, but she waved him off. "My father was an army man. If he hadn't died at Badajoz, it would have happened somewhere else. And whether he was dead or alive made no difference to my circumstances. He didn't want me with him. I told you before-the man you knew was not the man I knew." She looked him straight in the eye. "You have to let this go. It wasn't your fault."

"Thank you," he whispered, amazed to find he believed what she said. They stared at each other for a very long time. Then Emily scooted over and rested her head against his chest. He gathered her in his arms and hooked his chin over her head. They fit.

What had to happen next was going to break his heart.

Blackstone batted his ear. Something was tickling him, interrupting his slumber. Slumber? Even as he resisted emerging from the fuzzy state, his mind began assessing. He had fallen asleep? How was that possible? What was that blasted itching at his ear? Where was Emily?

Emily! Oh, God, he'd fallen asleep before his seduction could even begin. His mind snapped to attention, and his eyes flew open, though he did not move. He could see her several yards away, hunched over. She appeared to be adorning his boots, which he hadn't bothered to put back on after they got out of the water, with...sea grass? He reached up to touch the source of the irritation near his ear and pulled a crown of braided grass off his head.

He burst out laughing. She whirled, eyes wide, wearing her own crown of muted green. "You fell asleep," she said defensively, "and I neglected to bring a book."

"I do believe we have finally hit upon your natural talent," he teased. "You can now stop scouring the library for how-to tomes. Clearly, grass-braiding is your calling."

He was still chuckling when she appeared in his frame of vision, kneeling over him with the sun backlighting her disheveled, grass-laden locks. He sobered, keenly aware of the picture she presented. It was as if she were visiting from another, better world. Who was seducing whom here?

She reached for his crown. "If I'm cursed with grass braiding as my natural talent, I won't waste it on an unappreciative audience."

He sat up and twisted after the crown. "Give it back!" he mock demanded. "You've just uncoronated me!" She pivoted away, still on her knees. He rose to his knees as well and reached for the crown, lured by her laughter. Lunging, he lost his balance and began to fall toward her.

For a moment they teetered, and he could have righted himself, righted them. Done the right thing and left her in control of her own future.

He heard a small clear voice inside his head. Just fall.

The right thing and the wrong thing, all mixed up together. It was too easy.

He fell.

He took her down with him, grabbing her in the crook of his injured arm while his other arm broke their fall. They were both breathless, still laughing as they tumbled to the ground, she on her back, he on top of her, braced on his elbows to keep his full weight off her.

She went silent, eyes widening into impossibly blue pools as she reached up to replace the now-ragged crown on his head. "Perhaps I shall coronate you after all," she whispered.

It was his undoing. He kissed her. What else could he have done? Tinged with the salt that had dried on her lips, it was a sweet kiss, threatening to bubble over with laughter. It was, he thought fleetingly, perfection.

She sighed softly and deepened the kiss, opening her lips slightly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to ignite a fire inside him. Her gown, now mostly dried from their time in the sun, had a high neckline and long sleeves. It seemed criminal that none of her skin was exposed to this beautiful day or available for his adoration. He began to fumble with the row of tiny buttons as he stroked her tongue with his. Soft and yielding, she pulled him closer, wordlessly urging him on.

Her skin. He needed to touch her skin. "Goddammit," he cursed, abandoning his assault on the buttons and reaching for her skirts. He hitched them up and was rewarded with an exquisite expanse of white thigh. Two perfectly shaped bare legs. He sat back on his heels. Keep going, the voice said, and though he no longer knew which voice it was, he obeyed.

He rested his hand lightly on her ankles, and after a moment's pause, traced slowly up her legs, stopping at her knees to hook a finger around the back of one and caress the tender flesh he found there.

She inhaled sharply. "It's so-"

"I know. Shhh." His hand continued its journey, turning inward as it reached her thighs. He could hear the thundering of his pulse, hoof treads pounding his eardrums. A madman at Bedlam, he was crazed with pent-up desire but forcing himself to go slowly.

She started working on the buttons herself. "I have to get this off. I have to get this off now."

So much for slowly.

Her fingers were more nimble than his, and she quickly unfastened enough buttons that he could loosen the tapes of her chemise and yank it down. He was on her in an instant, hand cupping soft mounds of flesh, tongue flicking pebbled pink peaks.

But she wasn't having it, at least not yet. "You, too," she commanded, pushing against his chest with a strength that surprised him.

Wordlessly, he obeyed, rearing back and tearing off his shirt as if it were made of fire.

She grasped his shoulders, pulling him back down. Obliging her, he settled some of his weight on her, bracing himself on one elbow as he renewed his assault on her breasts.

She was keening, low in her throat, head thrown back. Then she wrapped her legs around him. It was too much. He couldn't last-he was an untried boy in the face of her power.

As if she'd heard his thought, she lifted her head and framed his face with her hands. "Breeches," she commanded.

They were off before she took another breath.

Without warning, she grabbed his cock and began the same stoking he'd shown her a week ago.

Jesus Christ, he was on fire. "We have to go slowly. It hurts the first time."

"I don't care." She guided him to her and arched her hips, an unmistakable invitation. "I want..." Eyes glazed with desire, she thrashed her head back and forth against the sand. Then, suddenly, she went still, and focused her sapphire eyes on his. "Please," she said. "Please."

He obeyed, but as he slid in, he found her bud and began stroking it intently, rhythmically. God, but she was like heaven. So tight. So hot. Driven ever onward by the searing fire consuming him, he pulled out. And plunged in, again and again. Each time, the flames grew higher. Her soft moans became louder, her breath increasingly frantic. Feeling the tremors begin deep in her core, he pressed his finger down hard on her clit.

Mission complete. You have won. For a split second, he saw the future. The smiling, blue-eyed infant, who would look like a cross between her and Alec. The baby that would force her to marry him.

The baby who might be struck with his family's affliction.

The baby who would leave her no choice.

He drew his hips back, but the pull was too strong. Another plunge into immolating velvet. She cried her pleasure.

"Goddammit!" Another plunge.

Her crisis kept coming and coming. The world was blurring around him as blood pounded against his eardrums.

"Fuck!" he shouted, hearing his own hoarse voice echo over the empty beach.

With a gargantuan effort, he marshaled his will and pulled out, crying out from the injustice of it all as he spent his seed on her stomach.

She wasn't experienced in these matters, it was true, but Emily could tell something was wrong. Even as her body shivered with delicious aftershocks from the wave of pleasure that had engulfed her, she lifted her head to survey the scene. He was using his shirt to clean her stomach. "What's the matter?" she asked as he pulled her chemise back up over her breasts.

"Nothing," he said tersely.

Was he concerned he'd gotten a babe on her? The last thing she wanted was to trap him into an unwanted marriage. But he'd pulled out, so he'd clearly been guarding against the possibility.

He finished putting her to rights-or as right as she was going to get after that tumbling. "I apologize."

"I don't," she said, scrambling to join him in a seated position. She nodded at the shirt he'd used as a rag. "There won't be any consequences."

"No," he said, his voice as icy and remote as it had been in the early days of their acquaintance. "There will be no consequences."

His apparent anger was bewildering. What had passed between them had seemed so elemental, so inevitable, so wonderful. Had it been different for him?

"Look me in the eyes, and tell me that after what just happened, you won't marry me."

Her head was spinning. It was difficult to keep up with his wild mood swings, but she struggled to make sense of the question, in light of what had just happened.

Duty. Of course. Wasn't it always duty with him? He'd given in to a moment of carnal weakness, and now he was girding himself to pay the price-for a lifetime. Unsure whether she should be angry or hurt, she said the only thing she could. A deep breath in, and five simple words. "I will not marry you."

"Remind me again why not."

"If I marry, I give up everything," she recited. It was a speech she knew well. "My inheritance, my grandmother's property, my freedom. You should have seen how Mr.-" She lowered her eyes to the sand. That needn't be part of the speech.

Air hissed out of his lungs. Hooking his thumb under her chin, he forced her to look at him. "You should have seen how Mr. Manning treated his wife?" Demeanor softened, he spoke gently now, looking more like the Eric she'd come to know.

"Mr. Manning has been unkind to many people, his wife among them." This was awful, this uncertainty, this interrogation. She just wanted to run, to be back in her room, wash the salt and sand off. Wash him off. "Since we appear to be...done here, shall we go back to the house?"

"And he's been unkind to you, too. Unkind enough to give you that scar?"

Ignoring him, she stood and brushed sand off her dress. To have the scar referenced brought all the shame of that night to the surface, and shame made her defensive.

"Tell me," he said, pointedly remaining seated.

At that moment, she wanted to slap him, the entitled aristocrat who thought he could bend the world to his will. "Ah, another question that's actually a directive." Not even bothering to conceal the anger that must be visible on her face, she stared at him, silently daring him to press her.

He clenched his jaw and looked up at the sky as if imploring the heavens for patience. But when he righted his head again, he offered her a small, resigned smile. "All right. Let's go back to the house."

Chapter Seventeen.