"This is senseless." Each word was staccato blunt. "I don't know why I'm even discussing this with you."

"If it bothers you to have a woman not utterly docile to your will, I could book passage on some other vessel now that we're in port," she rashly said.

"Really," he murmured.

Clasping her hands in her lap, she straightened her shoulders and looked up at him with an uncompromising gaze. "You doubt it?"

"Yes."

"You certainly are plain, Rochefort," she coolly said. "Am I your prisoner until Naples?"

"At least until Naples," he drawled.

"I think not," she snapped, thin-skinned and touchy, not inclined to take orders from anyone now that her independence was restored. "This very polite harbormaster will no doubt grant me asylum from your unwelcome designs."

He stood very still, his dark eyes half-shuttered. "I doubt it, but you could try."

"How ominous that sounds. What exactly would you do to keep me?" she sardonically inquired. "Tie me to your bed?"

"That won't be necessary." He smiled faintly. "My uncle heads the embassy here."

"I see." Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. She knew the British embassy was one of preeminent power in an economy dominated by British trade. "In that case," she went on, forcing herself to speak in a normal tone, "maybe I should tell him you kidnapped me."

"I think Remy might dispute that. He was witness to your, ah, willing involvement," Beau silkily murmured.

"Damn you!" she hotly exclaimed, glaring at him. "Maybe I'm no longer willing."

"Give me a minute," he softly said, "and I'm sure I can change your mind."

She drew in a deep breath, his words, the small underlying heat in his voice, triggering delectable memory. And her voice when she spoke trembled slightly. "Would you keep me against my will?"

"Never." Shameless impudence shone in his eyes.

"Bloody go to hell," she breathed, rankled by such brazen assurance.

"Give it up, darling. You don't really want the notoriety anyway, do you?"

He was right, of course. Any publicity would be disastrous to her reputation. "You needn't feel smug, Rochefort," she fiercely declared. "I intend to pay you back for this coercion."

"I never doubted you would," he serenely replied. "Just remember to stay in the carriage."

When the coffee arrived a few moments later, he politely offered her some, for a second cup had been thoughtfully included on the tray.

"I'd rather break bread with the devil," she snapped.

"I'll make it up to you," he soothed, well schooled in dealing with irate females. "We'll go shopping afterward."

"Does that calm all your doxies' temper tantrums?"

Always, he wished to say, but gracious in his victory, he said instead, "I'll beg your pardon in any way you please once this is over."

"And the cost is incidental," she sarcastically murmured, "because your family owns half of England."

"I'm sorry," he quietly said, not about to argue the merits of his wealth. "I don't suppose you'd like some ginja?" he offered, pouring himself a liberal draft of the Portuguese liqueur made from Morello cherries. And when she didn't answer, he casually lifted his glass to her in salute before drinking it down. He didn't speak to her again but waited silently at the window overlooking the harbor, sipping his coffee, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

She maintained a studied indifference that took its toll on her willpower, for the fragrant aroma of steaming coffee filled the room. She was dying to pour herself a cup and take a cake from the tray. The fruity cakes, heavy with citron and cherries, were steaming too in the coolish temperature of the harbormaster's office, the sugar glaze melting down their fluted sides giving off little tendrils of heat. Beau hadn't even glanced at them, damn his black soul, while the delicious scent and sight of them were torturing her.

By the time the carriage and guard arrived she was in a decidedly pettish mood, feeling ill used and starved. Even the harbormaster noticed and gallantly directed his conversation to Beau during the drive to the eastern reaches of the port where the Betty Lee was berthed. The men were engaged in a discussion of river currents as they stepped from the carriage and took leave of her with a minimum of words. But as the harbormaster gave last orders to his men who had arrived in a second conveyance, Beau paused at the carriage door. "Now don't move," he gently reminded her, "and once this is over, you can take out your temper on me with my blessing."

"You may regret such generosity, Rochefort," she irritably said.

A small smile curved his fine mouth; her raw, restless nerve was reminiscent of her untrammeled sexuality. "I'll take my chances," he softly replied.

She watched him stride away, his long, dark redingote stamping him with a sinister air, the silhouette of his tall form limned against the pale water like a darkly forbidding apparition from some stygian gloom. His black hair was spiked by the wind into a wild disheveled nimbus; the caped folds of his black coat, caught up by errant gusts, billowed out like fiendish wings.

He suddenly looked a stranger moving down the quay; dangerous, menacing, phantomlike, towering above the phalanx of guardsmen. An unnerving shiver fluttered down her spine. How well did she know him beyond the narrow confines of their heated passions? Could she truly assert herself against such ominous power?

But a second later she shook away her apprehensions. She wasn't a fainthearted, timid young girl; she was capable of taking care of herself-the way she always had, not only in the years following her father's death, but long before as well.

Which brought to mind her immediate circumstances and her guard. Sliding the window up, she leaned out to check the position of the soldier left to protect her. Turning at the sound of the window rising, he broke off his conversation with the driver and when she smiled at him, he smiled back and wished her good-day. The Portuguese phrase was one of the few familiar to her.

Resting back against the seat a moment later, she drummed her fingers against the worn leather, hoping she wouldn't have to be shut away too long in the carriage. She detested waiting, as she disliked being ordered to play the missah lady, protected and coddled like some simpleton. She knew how to shoot as well as any man and if the old harbormaster hadn't been so gracious, she wouldn't have felt the need to acquiesce so readily. On the other hand, perhaps salvaging her luggage was worth a politic show of submission.

She restlessly flicked a dust mote from her skirt, leaned over to brush a smudge from the toe of her shoe, impatiently restraightened the hem of her pelisse as she sat upright again.

Twenty seconds had passed.

Fidgety, she wondered what would happen if she stepped from the carriage and looked around. Beau was well away by now. How would he know? She briefly debated, not sure how hindered she was by her coerced agreement or Beau's orders to stay inside the carriage. Perhaps he only meant she was to stay out of danger, she conveniently rationalized. How could it hurt if she strolled around the immediate vicinity?

Pursing her lips, she gazed out the window, contemplating the possible consequences-when a gunshot exploded.

She had the door open before the second shot resounded and at the third shot she was halfway to the ground, only to be faced with the young guardsman ordering her back inside in a rush of Portuguese. Slamming the door shut once again, he stationed himself directly in front, barring her exit. Which meant she could only peer out the window to try to catch a glimpse of the disturbance. Leaning way back, she could see down the extremity of the quay. A tall, burly man was racing for the shore well ahead of his pursuers.

She suspected he was Horton; who else would flee from the Betty Lee? Her guard, panicking at the continued sound of gunfire, was trying to load his rifle. "Not like that," she murmured, her fingers twitching as she helplessly watched him fumble with the cartridge. Careful, don't jam the barrel, she silently commanded. "Oh, god ..." she groaned, his clumsy operation of the ramrod excruciating to observe.

Quickly glancing out the window, she took note of Horton's progress. Beau, who was within her range of vision now, led the chase, his long stride closing the distance between himself and the sprinting man. Bullets whined around Horton as the guards shot at him. But he had an enormous advantage in distance and once he reached the street bordering the quay, he could lose himself in any of the labyrinthine alleyways winding up the hillside.

Tense and agitated with her confinement, she longed for one of her fine Manton pistols that had been auctioned off with their household goods. There had to be horse pistols somewhere in the carriages, she decided; everyone carried them. Shifting onto her knees, she quickly lifted the seat, searching the storage area beneath. "Eureka," she softly exclaimed, catching sight of an old relic of a weapon resting on a coil of rope. Pulling out the dusty pistol, she ripped away the small cartridge pouch attached to the handle and found three paper-wrapped cartridges inside. Hopefully one would be enough, she thought, swiftly loading the pistol. Horton had almost reached the end of the quay.

Her guard, well away from the carriage, had positioned himself in the middle of the empty street, the townspeople having scattered for shelter at the first gunshots. His musket was raised, braced against his shoulder, sighted in on his target. But he was shaking with nerves, apparently not blooded yet in combat. Slipping from the carriage unnoticed, Serena brought up her weapon and carefully aimed it at the man running directly toward them.

He was only twenty yards distant, his muscular legs pumping like pistons, his face set with grim determination, his speed accelerating as he caught sight of the musket pointed at him. Horton swerved just as the guardsman fired and the shot went wide. While the soldier struggled to reload, Horton bore down on him, charging headlong, the drumming of his boots on the cobblestones like thundering hoofbeats signaling the apocalypse. Steadying her pistol hand at the wrist she brought her sights up. Horton's face was fully visible now-terrifyingly close-a villainous face, heavily bearded, scarred, his eyes deep-sunk and malevolent.

She squeezed the trigger.

A feeble puff of smoke erupted from the powder pan. Swearing at the old damp powder that had misfired, she threw the heavy pistol with all her strength, hitting Horton full across his bushy black brows. But he kept coming, ignoring a blow that would have dropped an ordinary man and before Serena could gather air into her lungs to scream, he smashed headlong into the soldier, knocking him over. As the guard lay stunned on the ground, Horton savagely kicked him in the head before turning with quicksilver speed to grab Serena's arm. With a rough jerk he pulled her close, positioning her before him like a shield, his knife to her throat.

"Don't move or I'll kill her," he snarled at the carriage driver, not realizing the man had all he could do to hold the horses from bolting with the smell of blood in the air. "And now, dearie," he panted, his rancid breath repulsive in Serena's nostrils, "you're going to get me out o' here." Drawing much-needed air into his lungs, he squinted into the sun, gauging the speed of his pursuers.

Serena scarcely dared breathe for fear the knife would slice into her throat. His arm was like a vise across her waist, his knife hand hard against her chin, the blade hovering dangerously close. She recalled the bludgeoned corpse of the captain at Dover lying dead white on the table. The soldier at her feet oozed blood from his mouth and nose as his spirit slowly left his body, another victim of this man's brutality and, paralyzed with fear, she was utterly nonplussed for the first time in her life. It seemed a nightmare too horrible to contemplate. And then she heard a familiar voice calmly say, "Let her go."

Her gaze focused first on the sweet blessed sound of salvation and then a protracted moment later Beau appeared in her field of vision, standing directly before her, his tall, broad-shouldered frame motionless against the backdrop of agitated guardsmen.

"Look," he quietly said, slowly bringing his hands up, palms open to show Horton. "I don't have a weapon. I'll have the soldiers back off." He nodded slightly to the guards who retreated. "No one will hinder your escape," he went on, carefully lowering his hands. "Leave the lady. You're free to go."

"She goes with me, mate," Horton growled.

"No, she stays. You have my word no one will follow you. The driver will come down. Take the carriage."

"Your word?" Horton sneered. "That don't mean nothin' to me."

"Then take me instead. And release her."

Horton's laugh was ugly. "I like this little bit o' fluff more'n you, mate. She feels right nice."

Serena went pale.

"I'll buy her from you," Beau quickly said. "You'll need money."

"How much?" Horton said, his flinty eyes suddenly regarding Beau with acute interest.

"A thousand pounds. Enough to purchase a great deal of female company."

"You don't have it." It was an enormous sum to a man of Horton's ilk.

"I do," Beau replied, sliding his hand into his coat pocket and pulling out a roll of bills. "Here."

Was it possible he'd free her? Serena thought, a tiny fragment of hope insinuating itself into the overriding terror engulfing her. Could it all be over so easily with a simple exchange of money? And she'd be safe again? Her breath seemed in abeyance, the world momentarily arrested on its axis.

"Toss it over."

"Release the lady first."

Horton looked at the money, indecision evident in his expression, greed prompting him to want both Serena and the money, although he was uncertain how to accomplish the feat. "Tell the driver to climb down," he said.

Beau curled his index finger on the hand holding the bills, the small gesture directed at the driver. "Now let the lady go." His eyes flickered upward briefly, watching the driver tie the reins securely in place.

Horton stared at the money for a moment more and then shook his head. "Sorry, mate."

She was as good as dead, Serena grimly thought, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it thumping against her rib cage. And she felt him begin to pull her backward toward the carriage. In an eerie, pale blur of images her life flashed before her eyes during the slow retreat, Horton's knife blade lightly flicking her tender skin, each step moving her closer to her inevitable death. How long did it take one to bleed to death? she wondered.

Beau watched Serena being drawn away, his gaze locked on Horton's knife hand, silently counting the steps as they moved. Two, three ... Jesus, she almost stumbled. He could feel perspiration trickle down his spine-four, careful-five ... six ... Horton had to reach up soon to begin making the ascent into the driver's seat; he had to adjust his hold if he wanted to carry Serena with him.

Just ... like ... that.

A shot rang out, a bullet whined through the air, and Horton's right eye and the top of his head disappeared in a bloody explosion of tissue and bone.

Serena's high, piercing scream reverberated up the narrow street running down to the docks as Horton's brains sprayed her in a gruesome drizzle. For a moment of ghastly horror, she watched an eyeball ooze down her arm and then a shrill, lurid cry echoed in her ears as if from a great distance-the sound drifting farther and farther away to the other side of the vertiginous darkness engulfing her.

Beau leaped forward to catch her as she crumpled in a faint. Lifting her into his arms, he briskly ordered the driver, "To the York Hotel." Stepping over Horton without a glance, he carried Serena to the carriage, the powder-burned bullet hole in his coat pocket visible when his redingote swung open. "Notify the British authorities," he quietly said to the harbormaster, who came up at a run. But he didn't wait for an answer, the carriage step already dipping under his weight.

He wiped what blood he could from Serena's face and hair on the ride to the hotel, discarding his soiled handkerchief after a time, resorting to his coat skirts to absorb the remainder of the bloody residue. Once the detritus was cleaned away, she was so deathly pale he quickly felt for her pulse. Its strong, steady rhythm reassured him. He'd heard tales of people dying from fright and certainly she'd been subject to the most appalling trial. But through it all, she'd been unflinchingly brave, not uttering a whimper despite her awful fear.

The doorman at the York Hotel immediately called for help when Beau descended from the carriage with Serena still unconscious in his arms and by the time he'd walked through the swiftly opened double doors, several more staff were offering their assistance.

"I need rooms immediately. The lady's been in an accident. Have a doctor summoned."

"Yes, sir, of course, Lord Rochefort, we'll have you escorted to your suite at once." No one questioned the relationship of the lady to the young lord. Beau St. Jules was well known at the York; the ambassador's nephew was a frequent visitor.

"Rochefort!" a voice cried out, the hubbub having drawn the attention of several guests in the lobby.

And before Beau could escape, Lord Edward Dufferin appeared, pushing his way through the hovering staff. Puffing slightly from having moved his portly frame with unusual speed, he rested his curious gaze on Serena. "Been in a bit of a scrap, St. Jules?" he queried, taking in the bloodstains on Serena's gown. The white lace on her collar was exceedingly soiled. "Could I be of help?"

"Nothing serious, Duff," Beau replied, inwardly groaning at his bad luck at being sighted by a gentleman who was an old friend of his uncle. He hadn't planned on visiting Damien. "The lady fainted and cut herself in the fall."

"Is she English?"

It was a pointed question; he wished to know her name.

"A distant cousin, Lord Dufferin," Beau evaded.

At which unfortunate time, Serena came drowsily awake and, looking up into Beau's face, whispered, "Darling ..."

Eddy Dufferin's eyes widened and he cast a speculative glance at Beau. "A cousin, you say," he murmured, his smile one of knowing male conspiracy.

"If you'll excuse us," Beau quickly said, not about to reveal any pertinent details likely to get back to his uncle and family. And without waiting for a reply, he swiftly walked away, carrying Serena across the lobby into the colonnaded atrium onto which the rooms opened.

7.

"Who was that?" Serena murmured, her eyes still heavy-lidded, her voice wispy and low.

"Nobody," Beau blandly disclaimed. "How are you feeling?"

"Alive ... thanks to you," she replied.

"Your color's better. You were very courageous."

"If my pistol hadn't misfired, I might have slowed him down."

Beau chuckled. "You mean I'm not going to be able to say, 'I told you so.' "