"Justin -"

With a curse, he whirled. "Must you keep hounding me?" he demanded tautly.

"Have I wed a harridan? Go back to bed and just leave me the h.e.l.l alone!"

His regard was fierce. His tone was fierce. Both scalded her. A sharp, tearing pain speared through her heart.

Arabella waited no longer. With a stricken little cry she bolted.

Twenty.

The instant she was gone, Justin spun around. A wrenching pain ripped through him. He wanted to howl

and rage like the monster he was.

His eyes squeezed shut. But even then her image danced against his eyelids. Arabella, staring up at him, chalk-white and pale, her wounded hurt shooting like an arrow straight into his heart.

"Sweet Christ," he whispered. "What have I done?"In the aftermath hung an eerie silence.You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, jabbed a scathing voice in his skull. You filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.Self-disgust churned in his belly. Never had he hated himself as he did in that moment. He'd always known he was a demon inside. But he'd never known how completely vile he was until

now.

Feeling as old as the heavens, he made his way into a chair. Numbly he realized his gla.s.s was still in hand.

He downed the fiery liquid in a single gulp.

A bitter, ominous darkness slipped over him.

How strange that fate had brought her into his life, into his bed*into his heart. Little by little, she

had pulled down the barriers around his heart as no other woman ever had*as no other woman ever would.

It struck him then, that in the days since his marriage, the restlessness that had plagued him for years was

no more. With Arabella, each day was unique and fresh*like morning dew upon a newly formed leaf bursting into the world, cherished by nature, glistening bright in the sunshine. It was like seeing the world all over again, after a long, long journey into darkness, returning to find a world full of vibrance and color. For Justin, it was a feeling utterly foreign to him.

And the nights*sweet Lord, the nights! She turned to him eagerly, denying him nothing. Giving all that he asked and more.

And what had he done?

Exactly what she had said. He had pushed her away.

His lips twisted. Was this G.o.d's way of punishing him? he wondered blackly. Of making him pay for what he was? For the life of him, he could not explain what drove him.

It was just as he'd told Arabella. He was*who he was.

He would never change, he thought bleakly. He couldn't.

He didn't know how.

The night eroded. The moon sank low in the sky.

Hours later his heavy footsteps trudged up the stairs.

In his room - their room - Arabella lay sleeping. Sliding off his robe, he slipped into bed beside her, taking care not to wake her. In her sleep, she turned toward him, as if to seek him out, though G.o.d knew it was the last thing in the world she should have done. Knowing he couldn't stop himself, Justin pulled her into his embrace.

Her hand came to rest in the middle of his chest. For a timeless instant, her fingertips lay poised directly above his heart. Then she relaxed, nestling against him as if he were all that she desired.

Overcome by the need to touch her, he slid the back of his knuckles over her cheeks. They came away wet with tears.

He froze.

Wrenching shame spilled through his gut. His arms tightened. He felt charred inside.

"Arabella," he said raggedly. "Oh, G.o.d." He'd been so afraid he would hurt her*and he had. He'd made her cry. Cry.

The blackness within him yawned deeper. She was sweet and pure and he was a fiend. He'd always known it. His father had known it.

Perhaps it was better this way, he thought bleakly. Better that she see him for the wicked, heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.d that he was.

She might have walked into his life, into his arms, but she would never stay. Never in a million years. Best to take what he could, while he could, for as long as it lasted.

Because G.o.d knew, it wouldn't last forever.

In his heart, there was never any doubt.

It was inevitable, perhaps: He dreamed that night. He dreamed he was back at Thurston Hall. It was June. The night was warm. Through the fog in his brain, he realized he was drunk again. Stumbling just outside his father's study*

The memory sharpened, spreading like a bloodstain.

His father barred his way.

"Where the devil have you been?"

"What, my lord, you wish an account of the night's activities? Perhaps we should be seated. This could take some time, for the evening's entertainment was interesting, shall we say. I give you fair warning, though, it's altogether possible you may be shocked - "

Again he heard his father's voice, stabbing at him, the p.r.i.c.k of a knife.

"Cease! I've no intention of listening to your filth*Look at you, so drunk you can hardly stand! And you reek of cheap perfume! G.o.d, but you are so very much your mother's brat! She shamed me, the witch! She shamed my good name, as you shame me !"

In his sleep, Justin flinched. Yet still he could hear his father, thundering through the walls of his mind, hurtling through the dark, ripping through the barriers of time and death - until it was just the two of them, standing outside the study.

"All these years I've had to look at you, staring back at me with her eyes, with her smile. Reminding me what she did, what she was - a wh.o.r.e who would spread her legs for any man who would have her."

"No," Justin muttered. "No."

"And you are no better. Your blood is tainted, as she was tainted."

There were hands on him. Hands shaking his shoulder. "Justin," said a voice. "Justin, wake up."

He was still caught up in the past, snared in the tangled web of the dream.

"No decent woman will ever have you, boy. No decent woman will ever want you!"

His arm thrust wide. "No," he shouted. "No!"

A sharp, feminine cry shattered the night.

He bolted upright. His head came around wildly. Arabella was scrambling up from the floor beside the

bed.

Sanity return in a rush. "Arabella! Christ, did I hurt you?" He dragged her up beside him.

"No," she said jerkily. "I'm fine. Really."

She was on her knees beside him, her eyes scouring his face.

"You were dreaming, Justin. Shouting."

"Yes." Releasing her, he sank back against the wall. He stabbed his fingers into his

forehead, as if to drive out the memory.

Tentatively she touched his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't. He was still shaking.

"It seemed*so real. What were you dreaming of?"

"My father," he whispered.

He raised his head. In his eyes was something naked, something stark and lonely and beseeching. He

looked so like a hurt little boy she nearly cried out. She had the strangest sense that he was floundering,

uncertain of himself. But why? Why?Blindly she spoke. Blindly she pleaded. "Please, Justin. Please, just*talk to me. Ican't live like this. With this festering between us." She gave a tiny little shake of her head."I don't want to."

He touched her then. With the pad of his thumb, he whisked away the dampness on her cheek. "I hurt you before," he said with a touch of ragged harshness. "I'm sorry. I

don't want to hurt you again. But -" his shoulders hunched up, then down. "I'm not sure I can tell you. I'm not sure I can tell*anyone."

The tension that constricted his body was immense. She sensed he was fighting some fierce inner demon.

"Try, Justin. Please try."

The silence of the world seemed to drift between them.

Finally he spoke. "If I tell you, you'll hate me." It was a flat, hollow prediction.

"No. No. I could never hate you, Justin. Never."

Something bitterly dark and ominous crept into his features. "Even if I told you I killed my father?"

"You didn't. You couldn't. You wouldn't." Conviction gathered full and ripe within her.

"Believe it, Arabella. Believe it, for it's true." He shook his head when he saw the puzzled frown settle upon her brow. "Oh, not in the way you might think."

"How, then?" she challenged. "How?"

He spread his hands wide and looked at them. "With my wickedness," he said in an odd, strained whisper.