Suddenly, she covered her face with her hands and her shoulders began to heave. "I can't breathe," she choked out.

Max reached her in two strides. He put his gla.s.s to her lips and forced her to swallow. She choked, sputtered and pushed his hand away. He tried again, and this time she swallowed, then she let out a long shuddering breath.

"Thank you."

"Now sit down in that chair and drink every drop of that brandy."

She obeyed. After a while, she looked up at him. "It's hopeless, isn't it? I don't know what to do, which way to turn."

He knew that it wasn't only the attack on her that was tearing her to pieces, but suspicions too painful to admit to anyone. Money was a powerful motive for murder. That's why she wanted to marry and break the trust. It wasn't only because she feared William was alive.

He went down on his haunches so that their eyes were level. "Feeling better?"

She nodded. "You've seen us at our worst-my family, I mean. Things were different when my father was alive."

He thought he was on safe ground when he said, "He was a hard man to live with, wasn't he?" But again, she surprised him.

"Well, maybe we needed it. The discipline, I mean. You can't know how much I miss him."

"You sound as though you loved him."

"Actually, I adored him. We didn't always see eye-to-eye ... but ... Oh, Max, what am I going to do?"

The words jumped out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. "You're going to marry me, of course."

She was astonished. So was he. Slowly, his lips curled in a bemused smile. Why, in heaven's name, he asked himself, does she have to be the one?

She blinked slowly. "What did you say?"

"I said that you should marry me."

"You'd marry me, just like that?" She snapped her fingers.

"No. Not just like that. I've given this a great deal of thought, and I think it would be the best solution for both of us."

She said scathingly, "You'd go that far, just to get a story for your newspaper?"

He almost lost his temper before he remembered that she was still shaken from the attack, still confused and in need of comforting. He took the gla.s.s from her and set it down, then clasped both her hands. "Listen to me, Sara," he said. "I don't have to marry you to get my story. Even if you were to marry Townsend, I'd still hang around. And where would Townsend be? He'd take his money and leave. Someone has to stay here to take care of you.

"I know you think that once the trust fund is broken, the danger will be over. But are you sure? I'm not convinced that this has anything to do with money. If I'm right, it wouldn't matter if you went into hiding again and waited to come into your fortune when you turn twenty-five. Someone wants to hurt you. They found you before, and they will find you again."

"Don't you think I know that?" she said miserably.

His voice dropped and he stared at the scratches on her hands. "If you marry me," he said, "we'll both get what we want. If you're right, the danger will be over because the trust fund will be broken. But if I'm right, whoever wants to harm you will have to deal with me first."

Her eyes searched his face. "You'd go that far, just to protect me? But why?"

He gave her reasons that he knew she could accept. "Because I feel responsible. Because my newspaper stirred up public opinion against you. Because I was wrong about you and I want to make amends."

She tried to withdraw her hands. "I don't know, Max. I just don't know."

He felt as if his fate were hanging in the balance. In a voice that was strangely unlike his own, he went on, "And because, if you marry someone else, I'd just have to kill him." He flashed her a crooked smile. "Tell me I'm wrong about us. Tell me you don't want me as much as I want you, and maybe, just maybe, I'll find the strength to let you go."

He pulled on her hands and raised her to her feet. He could see that his little speech had made quite an impression on her. Her eyes were wide, dazed, disbelieving.

He'd never considered himself an unscrupulous man, but he was well aware that he was taking advantage of the situation. She was still suffering from shock. She was lost and confused. As she said herself, she didn't know which way to turn. He justified what he was doing by telling himself that it was only a matter of time before she came to him of her own free will. But events were moving too fast. Time was something he couldn't afford to give her.

He wrapped his arms around her. "Say you'll marry me, Sara."

Her eyes teared. "It wouldn't be fair to you, Max."

"I'll be the judge of what's fair."

His lips settled on hers. "Max," she breathed out, half protest, half plea.

She stopped thinking when he crushed her against his hard length and took her mouth with a pa.s.sion that sent her senses reeling. She clung to him for support, her head pressed into the crook of his arm as the kiss went on and on.

His hands moved over her, pressing her closer. She felt his arousal, and her own body clenched in response. The part of her mind that could still think told her that she wasn't being prudent. She didn't care. She was alive. She'd never felt more alive in her life. No one knew what would happen on the morrow.

When she started struggling, Max released her, but it was only to free her arms so that she could twine them around his neck. Then she dragged his head down to renew the kiss.

Surrender. She was giving into him. And his bed was only a step away. His body was urging him to take her, and so was his common sense. If he took her now, there would be no going back. On the other hand ...

He was debating with himself, and that was a fatal mistake. The scrupulous part of his nature won the battle. He'd never taken advantage of any woman, and he certainly wasn't going to start with the only woman he'd ever wanted to be his wife.

With the greatest reluctance, he raised his lips an inch from hers. "Does this mean you'll marry me?"

There was a heartbeat of silence as she tried to make sense of his words. "Yes," she whispered, "yes," and she gave him her lips again.

He kissed her softly. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

That was all he wanted to hear.

She cried out when he suddenly stooped down, swept her into his arms, and held her high against his chest. "What-?"

"I'm taking you to your room. No. No arguments. You've been through a lot tonight. I said that I would protect you and I meant it, even if it means protecting you from myself. What you need is a good night's sleep, and that's what you're going to get."

For a moment or two, she was totally humiliated, until she saw something in his eyes, banked fires tinged with humor, and she contented herself with burying her head against his chest. Max was right. She was exhausted, too exhausted to put her thoughts in order. All she knew was that Max was here, and just for a little while, she needn't worry about anything.

He took her to her room, deposited her on her bed and warned her that he'd give her five minutes, ten at the most, to get ready for bed, then he'd return to watch over her. He waited until she'd locked the door, then made for the servants' quarters upstairs and roused one of the footmen. He had plans to make, things to do, and he needed someone he trusted to watch over Sara. After he'd given the footman his instructions, Max returned to her room.

She was drifting into sleep when the memory of the attack flashed into her mind. "Max?" She hauled herself up and looked wildly around her chamber. He was sitting in the chair beside the fire, reading a book.

He rose at her cry of alarm and quickly crossed to her. "What is it, Sara?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just ... Max." Then she snuggled down in the bed and closed her eyes again.

When her breathing was slow and even, Max brushed her hair back from her face and discovered a long deep scratch from her ear to the base of her neck. He traced it with his fingertips, and rage ignited in the pit of his belly.

He wasn't as forgiving as Sara, not nearly as forgiving. When he found the person who had attacked her, he would exact a fitting revenge.

He was still staring at that scratch when there was a knock on the door. He went to answer it.

*Chapter Eighteen*

Sara was sitting up in bed drinking a gla.s.s of hot chocolate that her maid had brought only a few minutes before. Though Martha had greeted her with the cheery news that it was a beautiful, warm summer day, Sara felt cold and shivery. It was late, almost noon, but she couldn't summon the will to get up. All she wanted was to pull the blankets over her head and forget that anything existed outside the safety of her own chamber.

No one looking at her would have known that she'd been attacked last night. The only obvious injuries were the long scratch on her throat and the scratches on her hands. If she had to, she could explain them away by saying that she'd been playing with one of the stable cats. There were also grazes on her knees, but no one was likely to see them.

She didn't want anyone to know about the attack, because she didn't want to answer awkward questions. But most of all, she didn't want to raise the kind of suspicions that were going through her own mind.

Much as she wanted to, she couldn't stop reliving every moment of the terror she'd been through: those powerful masculine hands, grabbing her from behind, imprisoning her arms to her sides. The fear, the panic, when his arms had tightened around her, cutting off her breath. The mingled smells of sweat and cologne-or was it only the fragrance from the climbing roses and honeysuckle?

The details were becoming blurred, but she would never forget her terror.

She was shaking again.

There was so much to think about, so much to worry about. She didn't know which way to turn, what to do next. She hated this feeling of helplessness. Max was offering her a way out, but she was reluctant to take it. She didn't know what to do for the best.

Her eyes strayed to the chair Max had occupied last night. If he hadn't been there, she wouldn't have had the courage to close her eyes.

And last night she had promised to marry him.

She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering how he had kissed her. When she felt her body quicken in arousal, she gasped, threw back the covers and slid from the bed.

When she came downstairs, a footman told her that there was a gentleman waiting for her in the morning room. His name was Mr. Fallon, but beyond that, the footman knew nothing, except that he'd been waiting for some time.

The young man who rose at her entrance was of medium height and had a pleasant, open expression on his face. His hair was receding at the temples. She approved of his garments, dark blue coat and beige breeches. There were no ta.s.sels on his boots.

"How can I help you, Mr. Fallon?" she said, and indicated that he should take a chair. She sat on the sofa.

He came to the point at once. "Lord Maxwell asked me to give you this letter before he left for Winchester. It will answer all your questions."

She took the letter from him without being aware of it. She felt numb. The first thing that occurred to her was that Max had changed his mind about marrying her and didn't know how to tell her. But the thought was short-lived. Whatever Max was, he was no coward.

Mr. Fallon went on, "He didn't want to waken you. He left very early, you see. That's why he left that letter with me."

Baffled, she opened the letter and began to read. She could trust Peter Fallon, Max said, because he and Peter were friends as well as colleagues. Until he returned from Winchester-and he should be in Longfield later that evening, all going well-Peter would look after her. Meantime, he would procure a special license from the bishop, and when he returned, they would be married at once in Longfield's chapel. He would brook no delay, for reasons that must be obvious. All that she had to do was stay close to Peter and make sure the vicar was there.

There was no going back now. Dear Lord, what had she done?

"Are you all right, Miss Carstairs?"

She looked up to see Peter Fallon studying her. "You don't look like a bodyguard," she said.

He gazed at her levelly. "Brawn isn't necessary in this case. You must never be left alone. That's what Lord Maxwell told me. Wherever you go, I'll be close by."

"And how are you going to manage that? I'm not going to tell my family that you're here to protect me. It would only upset them. I'd have to tell them about ... " She hesitated, unsure of how much Max had confided in this man.

He finished the sentence for her. "About the attack on you last night? I understand. You may count on me to be the soul of discretion."

She stared at him for a long moment, then said coldly, "Who are you, Mr. Fallon?"

He answered her easily. "I work for Lord Maxwell. If you want to know more, you'll have to ask him. But for our purposes, we'll simply say that I've been commissioned by Lord Maxwell to write about the architecture of Longfield. That should explain my presence here. But I'll be wandering around, keeping an eye on you. If you leave the house, I want to know about it."

"Indeed!" She rose abruptly. "Max has taken too much upon himself this time."

He got up as well. "Yes, he's good at doing that. Miss Carstairs, please be reasonable. You won't even notice that I'm here. And when Max gets back, you can have it out with him."

She wanted to be angry, but his crooked, rueful half smile was hard to resist. She found herself softening, and in spite of herself, the corners of her mouth turned up. "You sound," she said, "as though you've been the object of Max's methods as well."

"Frequently," he a.s.sured her, and suppressed a theatrical shudder.

She laughed. "Wait here," she said. "First, I want to warn-that is, tell my family that Max and I will be married tonight, then I'll come for you and introduce you to them."

Peter Fallon remained standing until Sara had left the room, then he sat down again and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from the silver pot the maid had newly delivered. He'd already consumed one plateful of currant scones with lashings of melting b.u.t.ter and he wondered if he should ask for another. That was one thing about Max. He always thought of a fellow's comfort, especially if that friend-employee?-was doing him a favor. He had only to pull the bell-cord and a servant would come running and give him whatever he wanted.

That's where he would begin, he decided, with the servants. If one of them had delivered that note to Miss Carstairs last night, he would soon discover who it was, not by putting questions to them directly, but by coming at it obliquely. His methods were different from Max's and, in his own modest opinion, far more effective. Servants knew more than their masters and mistresses gave them credit for. There was no saying what else he might find out.

He drank his coffee absently, his broad brow pleated in a frown. So that was Sara Carstairs. He'd seen her at the trial, but not clearly, not full face and without her bonnet. Now that he had seen her, he wasn't surprised that Max was smitten. It wasn't her beauty, though she was pretty enough with her dark glossy hair swept off her face and her expressive gray eyes. It was something else, a curious blend of pride and fragility. But was she a murderess? Max had either changed his mind or the question had become irrelevant.

He yawned and yawned again. He wasn't surprised that he was tired. He'd been up half the night. One moment he'd been snug in his bed in his lodgings at the Cat and Fiddle, the next moment he'd been shaken awake by one of the Longfield footmen and dragged out to the house to confer with Max. He'd heard the rumors that were circulating in Stoneleigh, that Miss Carstairs was betrothed to some fortune hunter or other, and he'd wondered what the devil was going on.

Well, now he knew, and it rocked him back on his heels.

Max had been very terse before he left. There had been no talking things over as they usually did, only a curt recitation of events to bring him up-to-date and a series of orders. First and foremost, Max wanted to keep Miss Carstairs safe until he returned. She wasn't to go anywhere alone. Then Peter could begin digging for answers. Max wanted to know who had put the note on her dressing table, who was in a position to know and forge William Neville's handwriting, and where everyone was last night when the attack took place. The obvious answer, that Miss Carstairs was responsible and that there had been no attack, either had not occurred to Max, or he refused to consider it.

He was turning that thought over in his mind when she returned. The color was high on her cheeks and there was a martial light in her eyes.

"If you'll come this way, Mr. Fallon," she said, "I'll make the introductions."

There had never been a more dismal wedding than this. It might as well have been a funeral, except that it wasn't sorrow that permeated the atmosphere so much as disappointed hopes. Well, Max was in no mood to charm Sara's family out of their sullenness. He'd had a grueling ride to Winchester and back in one day, and he was tired and irritable.

What on earth was keeping Sara and Simon? If this interminable Longfield silence went on much longer, he would drop off to sleep.

He glanced around the chapel. It was in one of the round towers and couldn't have held more than twenty people. On this occasion there were six of them, including the vicar. Martin was reading a book; Constance was staring straight ahead of her; Anne was praying; and Lucy was petting a kitten.

Only one thing mitigated Max's ill humor. Neither Simon nor Martin had a scratch on them. It didn't seem likely that either of them had attacked Sara last night. For her sake, he hoped he was right.

But where the devil was she?