If she'd had a change of heart, that was too d.a.m.n bad. He wasn't giving her a choice. He'd tried chivalry, and if that didn't work, he would fall back on more primitive methods. He would carry her off to his hunting lodge in Cornwall and keep her there until she came to her senses. A blind man could see what was between them. How could one woman be so dense?

Five minutes, that's all he would give her, then he was going after her.

The vicar was fussing again. Max got up from his pew and went over to him. "What is it now?" he asked testily.

In a tight undertone, the vicar said, "This is all highly irregular. You should be married in church, not in a private house. And in the morning, as is the law of the land."

"The bishop has cleared everything, hasn't he? Perhaps you'd like to take your quarrel up with him?"

That silenced the vicar.

As it should, thought Max, because he had cleared everything with the bishop. Of course, it helped that his father and Bishop Hyde had been friends since schooldays. He'd explained that he was afraid that his bride would be mobbed if she were married in the local church, and that there was a chapel at Longfield. He'd also stressed the necessity for haste. The bishop had given him an oddly sorrowful look, but he'd signed all the necessary papers.

It was only on the ride back to Longfield that it occurred to Max he might have inadvertently misled the old cleric into believing that his bride was on the point of giving birth to their first child-out of wedlock. That would explain the sorrowful look.

He didn't know why he was grinning, because if it got back to his parents, there would be h.e.l.l to pay.

Max turned as the door opened. Sara, leaning on Simon's arm, entered. The chapel was small, with only a center aisle. A few steps took her to Max's side. She'd taken a great deal of trouble with her appearance, Max noted with approval. Her hair was dressed in tiny ringlets that were held in place by a white ribbon. Her gown was of ivory satin, and over it she wore a long-sleeved matching spencer that b.u.t.toned all the way to her throat. She carried a spray of white flowers in one hand.

His tiredness and irritability dropped away. He took her hand. Her fingers were trembling. She looked as though she would bolt at the least provocation. He lowered his head to catch her softly spoken words.

"You haven't signed the marriage contract," she said.

These were not the words he'd hoped to hear. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he could buy and sell her ten times over. Well, twice anyway. What stopped him was mere whimsy. He wanted Sara to trust him without reservation. He wanted her to have the same faith in him as she had in her miserable family. He wanted She squeezed his hand.

"What?" he asked, none too gently.

"Max, there's still time to change your mind."

His gaze narrowed on her face. Her eyes were fragile, uncertain, worried. Good. He'd give her something else to worry about.

"Not a chance," he said, "because you, my love, are going to make it worth my while."

The vicar cleared his throat, and the service began.

Constance helped her undress for bed.

She didn't want Constance's help, but didn't feel that she could refuse when it was her stepmother's gown she had borrowed for the occasion. There was little chance of Max's interrupting them. He'd fallen sound asleep at the dinner table and had to be helped to his bed.

Not that she blamed him. Her family had sat grim and silent throughout the meal, although they'd had plenty to say for themselves when Max was gone. It was Anne who had silenced them.

"Are you all blind?" she'd cried out. "Can't you see that Sara is in love with Max and he with her? He doesn't care about her fortune. This is a love match."

They'd all been stunned, herself included.

She thrust the memory from her, slipped into her dressing robe, and turned to face Constance. "Thank you for lending me your gown. If I'd had a gown especially made up, I'd have wanted something like this. It's truly beautiful."

"I had hoped to wear it to your wedding myself." Constance sighed and shook her head. "But I never thought it would be a wedding like this. I don't know what your father would say if he were here. You were always so level-headed. But you're no better than any other silly young girl, I suppose. You've allowed yourself to be taken in by a handsome face and a set of broad shoulders."

Sara touched her fingers to her brow and smoothed her frown away. "There's more to Max than that."

"Is there? How do you know? Who are his parents? Where does his money come from? Does he have any money? I very much doubt it. Oh, no, my girl, he has rushed you into marriage before we've had a chance to find out anything about him. He's a fortune hunter, that's what he is, and he'll be the ruin of us all." The flashing green eyes suddenly softened, and she said in a coaxing tone, "It's not too late. You can have the marriage annulled. Put him off for a night or two, until Drew comes home and you have a chance to consult with him."

"I don't want to consult with Drew. I know my own mind."

When Constance opened her mouth to speak, Sara silenced her with a curt motion of one hand. She didn't want to quarrel with Constance or anyone on her wedding night, but she'd had enough of these unprovoked attacks on Max.

"From now on," she said, "you will speak of Max with respect, and that goes for Simon and Martin, too. If the task is too much for you, then I suggest you leave Longfield at once. I mean it, Constance. I was never more serious about anything in my life."

Constance's jaw went slack, then she sucked in a long audible breath and glared at Sara. "The trouble with you," she said, "is you don't know who your friends are. I never thought to hear such words from you."

"You wouldn't hear them if you'd only behave."

With the gown over one arm, Constance marched to the door. But she wasn't finished yet. She swung to face Sara. "You have grossly misjudged your brothers. Why do you think they were sent down from Oxford?"

"Because they got in a fight over some trollop."

"Oh no. Because they got in a fight over you. They were defending your good name. And that's not the first or the last time they've rushed to your defense. Don't tell them I mentioned it. They would be angry with me if they knew."

"What? Constance ... "

With a triumphant smile, Constance sailed out of the room.

Sara felt sick inside. She remembered how she'd lectured her brothers when they'd told her they were being rusticated for the rest of the term. The fight was over a lady's honor, Simon had told her, and when Martin would have said more, Simon had cut him off.

She took a few paces around the room as thoughts chased themselves inside her head. At the window, she halted and looked out. There was no light winking at her from Drew's cottage. He was so nearly a member of the family that she'd wanted him at her wedding, but Simon told her that Drew had gone to Winchester on business.

If only Bea were here, she could advise her. But Bea had refused to come to Longfield because she knew how much she, Sara, had come to depend on her, and she didn't want to come between husband and wife.

Dear Lord, what had she done?

She sat on the edge of her bed thinking, thinking, thinking.

*Chapter Nineteen*

She was about to snuff out the candles on the mantelpiece when Max entered. Startled, she blurted out, "What are you doing here?"

He had removed his jacket and was wearing only his white shirt and black trousers. Amused and relaxed, he said, "Where else would I be on my wedding night? I apologize for falling asleep at the dinner table. The ride to Winchester took its toll, but I'm perfectly rested now."

It wasn't easy, but she managed a smile. "I understand." She clasped her hands to conceal their trembling. "Max, about last night ... "

"What about last night?"

"I think I may have given you the wrong impression."

"What impression is that, Sara?"

She couldn't hold that probing stare, so she turned away and fingered the spray of white roses Anne had given her to carry at her wedding. They were in a vase on a chest of drawers, and as her restless fingers plucked a bud, their sweet scent drenched the air.

"I don't want this to be a real marriage, Max," she said.

When she turned from the dresser, he was right in front of her. Her heart was thudding so hard, she wondered if he could hear it. "I don't want this to be a real marriage," she repeated, this time looking directly into his eyes.

He heard the words, but her eyes were telling him a different story. He should be used to it by now. Every time he got close to her, she raised the drawbridge. She didn't know how to give in gracefully.

She expected masculine umbrage, temper, but he smiled at her with a curious gravity. "You'll have to do better than that, Sara, or I'll be forced to call you a liar and a coward."

Her voice was cool. "The trouble with you, Max, is you're used to women falling into your arms."

His brows rose. "You have an exaggerated idea of my conquests. I admit I've had pa.s.sing interests, but I've never asked any woman to be my wife."

Shame suddenly engulfed her. "Oh, Max, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It's just that ... " She shrugged helplessly.

"Is it because you think I'm a fortune hunter?"

"Of course not. And I apologize for my family. They've been beastly to you."

"Is it because you think I'll publish the story in my newspaper?"

"Not if you say you won't."

"Would I be likely to, now that you're my wife? Don't you trust me? What is it, Sara? Tell me."

He was so close, she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the soap on his skin. Her senses were coming alive. She made a half move to turn away and found that she couldn't because he had boxed her in.

She inhaled sharply. "Max, you know who I am. I'm Sara Carstairs. I was acquitted of murder, but that means nothing to most people. They still think I'm guilty, and maybe I am. How could you ever be sure?"

"So that's it." He smiled fleetingly. "I know you're innocent, because I know you and they don't."

His words were both sweet and chastening, painfully chastening. She had to swallow before going on. "I never wanted a real marriage. If we were to have children, how could I live with that? The stigma? The shame?"

He ached to gather her in his arms and kiss her fears away. He resisted the impulse because he wanted her to let down the drawbridge of her own free will, without any tricks from him.

He said, "Simon and Martin are coping, aren't they? I don't hear them complaining."

"No, they don't complain, but they don't have an easy time of it either." Her lashes swept down, concealing her expression. "Constance told me that the reason Simon and Martin have been expelled for a term is because they got into a fight defending my good name." She raised her eyes to his. "Now do you see how it will be?"

He gave her one of those smiles that started on his lips, creased his cheeks, and slowly filled his eyes. "Remind me to shake their hands at breakfast tomorrow."

Temper heated her eyes. "Max, this is serious."

"As I am well aware. When did Constance tell you this, by the way?"

"Not long ago, when she helped me undress."

Now all was becoming clear. "And you had a sudden attack of conscience?"

"I realized how selfish I was, if that's what you mean. I wasn't thinking about what was best for you. I was thinking about what was best for me. But it's not too late. I'm sure we can have the marriage annulled or something."

There they were again, those silent messages in her eyes that made lies of all her words. She was trying to be n.o.ble and she was botching the job. He could no more leave her now than cut out his own heart.

Unsmiling, he said softly, "I know what's best for me, Sara. What I want to know is what's best for you."

"What?"

"What do you want, Sara, really want?"

What she wanted was standing right in front of her, his vivid blue eyes holding hers in a look that stripped away every defense. The candlelight glinted in his fair hair like strands of pure gold. She thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever known.

His hands were by his sides and he made no attempt to touch her. It wasn't necessary to touch her. He wasn't trying to hide what he was feeling. He wanted her, and her little speech might as well have remained unsaid.

Her voice was husky. "I don't want to hurt you, Max."

"No, but you will. Just as I'll hurt you. It's inevitable, Sara, because we're human. I'm willing to take my chances; how about you?"

He held out his hand, but he didn't touch her, and she understood that he was giving her a choice. It was a choice no one should have to make. She was shaking her head, but she couldn't fight her own heart, and her heart made the choice for her.

His hand closed around hers and he pulled her slowly into his arms. On a stifled breath, he said, "There's no going back now, do you understand? Not tonight. Not ever."

He said something else, something about a drawbridge that she didn't understand, then she went on tiptoe and, on a soft sigh of surrender, twined her arms around his neck. She felt the sudden jump of his heartbeat against her ribs, then his mouth was on hers, his lips filling her with his scent and flavor. The pleasure was so intense, she could have wept.

When the kiss ended, they were both trembling. Max didn't know whether he was awed or appalled. It had never been like this before. His body was starved for her and was clamoring for him to take her. He'd wanted her for so long. He'd thought endlessly about the night they'd met and his d.a.m.nable imagination had given that night a different ending.

He breathed in her fragrance and a jolt of desire whipped through him. His hands brushed over her shoulders and his fingers fisted helplessly in the soft mane of hair. He'd dreamed of those dark tresses draped over him like a curtain as her lips skimmed over every inch of his bare skin.

On a shaken laugh, he got out, "One of us has to slow down. Help me, Sara."

Her voice was sleepy, dazed. "Don't stop now." She rubbed her body against his. "I'll die if you stop."

"d.a.m.nit, I'm trying to be considerate."

"I don't want you to be considerate."

And it was true. William had taught her to fear the brute strength of men, but not for one moment did she confuse Max with the kind of man William was. She reveled in the feel of hard masculine muscles that tensed beneath her fingertips; reveled in the solid shield of his powerful chest. She wanted to press herself close to him. She wanted to possess him; she wanted to be possessed.

His mouth took her again, ravenous, demanding. She answered that demand with a pa.s.sion that made his head spin. A torrent of heat swept them to the brink. His hands raced over her, freeing her of her robe. He dispensed with the tiny b.u.t.tons on her nightgown, then pulled back the edges of her bodice and feasted on her warm flesh.

When she moaned, he laughed softly, pulled her to the bed and tumbled with her on the mattress. It took only a moment to free her of her nightgown, then he stripped out of his own clothes and stretched out beside her.

His hands brushed over her, molding her soft flesh, teasing, caressing every curve and valley. When she put her hands on him, and began her own shy exploration of his body, his breath began to rasp in and out of his lungs. His body shuddered with excitement at the soft mewling sounds she made.

"Sara, I don't think I can wait," he said hoa.r.s.ely.