Chapter 7.

"Marcus!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in shock as she realized the grim-faced man staring at her in the flickering light was her fiance. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, wiggling out from beneath the bed.

"I think," Marcus said dryly, having made way for her to crawl out from her hiding place, "that is my question."

Standing up, he helped her to her feet. If he had not known her so well, he would have thought he faced a boy. Hiding her red hair beneath a boy's cap and wearing a masculine jacket that had seen better days and a worn pair of breeches and scuffed boots, she could have easily pa.s.sed for a youth of twenty.

Not meeting his gaze, head down, she swiped at the smears of dust that marred the front of her jacket and breeches, her thoughts jumbled. How, she wondered desperately, was she ever going to explain this? There simply was no explanation, at least no reasonable explanation, she decided glumly. She risked a glance at him and asked, "How did you find me?" Something occurred to her and her eyes narrowed and accusingly, she questioned, "Did you follow me?"

His expression hard and distant, Marcus said softly, "That horse won't run, my sweet. There are any number of reasons why I might be here, none of them, I'll admit, reflecting admirably on me, but your position is far more invidious. I've just found my betrothed hiding in the bedroom of a man she claims to not like very much." His gaze cool, he said, "I think I'm owed an explanation."

A burst of laughter from below reminded both of them where they were and, almost as one, they moved toward the open window.

"This isn't the place for the conversation we need to have," Marcus said as they stood side by side at the window, "but believe me, Isabel, we will have it."

Throwing one leg over the sill and blowing out the candle, Marcus said, "If you don't mind, I'll go first." Bluntly he added, "I don't trust you not to run away the moment your feet hit the ground."

Isabel flushed in the darkness since that very thought had crossed her mind. Accepting defeat, she gave a quick nod of her head. Frowning, she watched him slide lithely from the window and disappear into the darkness below. The dangerous-looking man she had confronted tonight was not the Marcus she had known all her life. From her position beneath the bed, hearing the sounds of movement, she'd known that whoever had entered Whitley's room through the window, the same one she had used only fifteen minutes previously, had made a thorough search of the room. She couldn't be certain, but she didn't think the person found whatever had prompted the search in the first place. Had he been after the same thing she had? But how could that be? Even she didn't know what it was she was looking for, so how could the as-yet-unknown person know what it was? Knowing now that the stranger was actually Marcus, she concluded that it would be too coincidental to believe that he had been searching for the same thing she had and she dismissed that thought. It was also clear that he hadn't been looking for her; he had been as shocked as she had been when they recognized each other. So why had that paragon of respectability, the darling of every parent with an eligible daughter, the highly regarded Mr. Marcus Sherbrook, been sneaking about in the dark, pilfering another man's belongings? The Marcus she knew would never have done anything so...so...impolite, she thought with a half-hysterical giggle as she followed him out the window.

Marcus was waiting for her, his hands closing around her waist before her feet hit the ground. Effortlessly lifting her away from the building, he set her down in front of him.

Keeping a firm hold on her, he jerked his head toward a small copse of woods that lay behind the inn's stables. "My horse is tied over there," he said quietly. "Where is yours?"

She looked over her shoulder in the opposite direction. "I left mine tethered behind old Mrs. Simpson's place just down the road."

With one powerful hand now manacling Isabel's wrist, Marcus headed toward the copse of woods where his horse waited, dragging her along behind him. "Fine. We'll go pick up your horse right now."

Isabel had learned a long time ago that there are some fights one can win and some one can't. This was one of those fights that she couldn't win, and so she meekly followed his lead, making no effort to escape. They reached his horse and, after untying the animal and mounting, he pulled her up in front of him.

They were silent as he guided the animal through the darkness, skirting the inn and riding to Mrs. Simpson's small cottage. The hour was late enough that the cottage was in darkness. There was no cause for alarm when Isabel's horse nickered softly as they approached and Marcus's horse replied: Mrs. Simpson was deaf as a post.

Once Isabel was mounted, Marcus prudently took the reins of her horse and, leading the animal, urged his horse back toward the inn.

"Where are you going?" Isabel hissed. "This is the wrong way."

"There's someone else with me," Marcus muttered over his shoulder. "I have to wait for him."

Marcus considered just leaving his cousin to his own devices and riding to Manning Court with Isabel, confident Jack could fend for himself. The fewer people who knew of tonight's debacle the better, but he balked at abandoning Jack without a word. His mouth twisted. He could hardly send Jack a note informing him of a sudden change in plans, nor could he risk Jack looking for him. Once Jack quitted the inn and didn't find him waiting, he would no doubt start looking for him in the last place he was known to be-Whitley's room. Marcus couldn't let that happen; it was too dangerous. He had no choice but to wait for Jack...which left him with Isabel. The last thing he wanted to do was to introduce Jack to Isabel under these circ.u.mstances, but postponing the frank conversation he had in mind by allowing her to blithely ride off to Manning Court-unescorted, he reminded himself-didn't seem like a good option either. And then there was Jack.... Jack would be eager for news of what he had discovered in Whitley's room, just as he was eager to find out if Jack had learned anything useful from Whitley. Neither topic was for the ears of Mrs. Manning. The exchange of information could be delayed until they reached Sherbrook Hall-which would be, he admitted, sighing, after he escorted his fiancee home and returned to the house a great deal later. Marcus made a face, not thinking much of that option.

He was, he conceded sourly, caught on the horns of a dilemma. The more he considered it, the more his mind boggled at the explanation he would have to give Jack to account for Isabel's presence-even if he bypa.s.sed finding her hidden under the bed in Whitley's room, not to mention the reason she was dressed as a youth! What possible reason could he give for any of it? He didn't even have an explanation for her actions himself yet, and he wouldn't get an explanation until he had the time to speak alone and at length with Mrs. Isabel Manning, something that wouldn't happen in the short period before Jack joined them.

While the need to know why she had been in Whitley's room ate like acid in his belly, he realized that it might be simpler to postpone the confrontation with Isabel and send her on her way before Jack rejoined him. Which created another problem for him, and he struggled against the notion of her riding alone in the darkness to Manning Court. Even without the Whitley situation, every protective instinct he possessed was aghast at the idea of a gently reared woman riding unescorted through the night-and never mind that she had done just that to get here. Having her and Jack meet under these conditions was equally ghastly, and he couldn't decide which of his not very pleasant choices would be best.

Riding into the copse of trees at the rear of the stables, Marcus turned the problem over and over in his mind. He had come up with no solution when he halted their horses near where his horse had originally been tied. Marcus didn't like it, but it appeared that Isabel and Jack were going to meet tonight, unless he could think of some other way out of his dilemma. Turning to Isabel, he said, "We'll wait here. He shouldn't be much longer."

"Who are we waiting for?" she asked, curiosity evident.

"My cousin Jack."

She studied his big form barely visible in the darkness. It was devastating enough that Marcus had found her in Whitley's bedroom; the thought of someone else, a stranger, learning of it filled her with dismay. "Er, are you sure that's wise?" she mumbled. "I don't want anyone else to know about tonight, not even your cousin."

"No, it's probably not wise," he snapped, "but I don't have much choice. And I'm no more happy with having you meet Jack this way than you are." Thinking of all the complications before him, a strong sense of injustice overtook him. Finding Isabel hiding beneath Whitley's bed had been a direct hit between the eyes. Why had she been there? Why garbed as a boy? Was it because of some kind of perversion practiced by Whitley? His stomach lurched at the thought and bile rose in his throat. He took a deep breath, willing himself to think calmly. The hiding he could understand; if he'd been there and had heard someone else climb in through the window, he'd have hidden beneath the bed himself. There might be a reasonable explanation for all of it-none of which, he was convinced, he would like-but try as he might, he could only think of one reason that Isabel had been hiding in Whitley's room. Jealous rage clawed at his guts and he slewed around in his saddle and glared at her. "Are you and Whitley lovers?" he demanded.

Isabel stiffened. "How dare you!" she exclaimed, furious that he would even think such a thing. Her chin at a pugnacious angle, she added hotly, "You are insulting and presumptuous."

"You're my fiancee and I have just found you in another man's bedroom," Marcus said acidly. "I think I'm owed an explanation."

"What do you think I was doing there?" she taunted, too angry to watch her words. "Suppose I was there to meet Whitley? Suppose we are lovers? What are you going to do about it?" Hating herself for acting this way, she forced a nasty smile on her lips and murmured, "You realize, of course, that if you don't like the situation, you can call off the engagement."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed! I never wanted to marry you in the first place."

Riled beyond patience, he astonished both of them by grabbing Isabel and jerking her off her horse and onto his. Breathing heavily, holding her squirming body prisoner across the saddle in front of him, he snarled, "You listen to me, woman: you're mine! I'll not share you and, by G.o.d, we shall be married!" His mouth came down hard on hers and his lips crushed hers as he stamped his possession on her startled mouth.

This was no sweet kiss between gentle lovers; it was angry and desperate and full of a dark pa.s.sion that overrode all thought. Marcus kissed her as he had never kissed another woman in his life, demanding that she respond, that she feel the same primitive emotions that lacerated his very being. And she did. After that first stunned second, Isabel no longer sought to escape; she strained against him, her lips as hungry and insistent as his, her hands clutching his shoulders as if she would never let him go. She wanted this. She wanted him.

Blind with need, Marcus lost himself in the wine-sweet intoxication of her mouth, kissing her again and again, heedless of anything but the woman in his arms and her wild response to him. His hand slipped to her breast and he cupped that small weight, urgent desire flaring through him at Isabel's soft moan of pleasure.

The snort and sudden upraised head of his horse ended the moment as if it had never been. Recalled to his senses, Marcus dragged his mouth from Isabel's and peered through the darkness. Someone was coming.

Cursing himself, wondering where his wits had gone, he swung Isabel back onto her horse. In the broken light of the moon through the trees, one swift glance revealed that her boy's hat was wildly askew, strands of her hair tumbling from beneath it to frame her features. She was as aroused as he, her eyes full of sultry promise and her mouth half parted as if waiting for his kiss. Breathing hard they stared at each other, desire swirling thick in the air between them, and it gave Marcus some comfort to know that it was not all on his part.

The recognizable clink of a bridle nearby jerked his attention away from Isabel and he looked in the direction of the sound, trying to focus his thoughts. A soft whistle carried on the night air and he recognized it as the one he and Jack had agreed upon before they had parted. The person slowly riding toward him through the trees was Jack. How in the devil, he wondered, was he going to explain Isabel to Jack? He smiled grimly. Devil take it! If Jack looked askance at Isabel or breathed a word of tonight, he'd probably just have to shoot him-and he'd really hate to do that.

Aware that Marcus's attention was elsewhere, Isabel glanced around, desperately hoping that a way out of this dilemma would present itself. She gasped when she spied the dangling reins of her horse. During their violent embrace the reins had fallen unheeded to the ground and, recovering her senses, her heart banging in her chest, she leaned forward and recaptured them. Her thoughts raced as she considered her next move. She wasn't a coward and generally didn't care about the finer nuances of the dictates of the ton, but even she saw no good coming from meeting Marcus's cousin while she was dressed as a boy and apparently out larking through the countryside alone after dark. There were too many questions that needed answering, questions she couldn't answer. Gathering her courage, gulping in a deep breath, she kicked her mount into motion. The animal gave a startled leap and, with Isabel's heels digging into its sides, the horse plunged through the trees. Breaking free of the woods, Isabel pushed her horse into a blazing pace and, by the time the road was reached, the animal was in a full gallop, mane and tail streaming in the air. In moments, the stables, the inn, and Marcus were left behind, and the only sounds she heard were the thudding of her horse's hooves on the road and the frantic beating of her heart.

Swearing under his breath, Marcus gave chase and his horse lunged forward, but almost immediately he realized that catching Isabel was only going to create more problems and, though it went badly against the grain, he jerked his horse and let her escape. Blast her! She'd won this time, he thought angrily, but by heaven the next round would be his.

Jack appeared out of the darkness. He hadn't missed the noise of the departing horse and, cautiously approaching Marcus, he glanced in the direction of the fading sound and murmured, "Trouble?"

Marcus's jaw clenched. "Nothing I can't handle," he muttered.

Jack's brow rose, but he said nothing as he brought his horse alongside. Together they guided their mounts to the road and Jack asked, "You find anything interesting?"

Marcus shook his head, disappointment leaking into his voice. "Not a d.a.m.n thing. And before you ask, yes, I looked at his boot heels and for a false bottom in his valise, but I found nothing." Grimacing, he added, "The man owns a remarkable amount of jewelry; he has enough fobs and seals and quizzing gla.s.ses to open a shop on Bond Street. Sees himself as a bit of a dandy, but beyond that, there was nothing in his room that you wouldn't expect to find." Remembering that astounding moment when he'd discovered Isabel beneath the bed, he muttered, "And I looked everywhere-even under the bed-and believe me, I found nothing I was looking for!"

Jack stared between the ears of his horse, disheartened that Marcus hadn't found the memorandum or at least a clue of some sort. He'd known that his task wouldn't be easy and the odds were against them finding the memorandum so easily. But where, he wondered, had Whitley hidden it? His lips quirked. a.s.suming that Whitley had the dashed thing. It worried him that this might be a sleeveless errand and that Whitley was guilty of nothing more than being an unsavory society hanger-on.

"I a.s.sume that you found Whitley?" Marcus asked, interrupting Jack's ruminations.

Jack nodded. "Had a bit of scare, though; he wasn't present when I first arrived, and I was on the point of bolting to find you when he walked inside." Jack looked thoughtful. "Our friend the major was in a decidedly foul mood when he arrived. I gather he'd been gone to an a.s.signation that did not go well. He made some ugly comments about the perfidy of women in general and especially the prime article that failed to keep the, er, appointment. I pity the absent ladylove when he eventually catches up with her-as he no doubt will."

Marcus had a very good idea of the lady's ident.i.ty and, wishing to change the topic, he asked, "I take it, then, that you had no trouble making yourself agreeable to Whitley?"

Jack laughed. "Whitley wasn't quiet about his dashed hopes for the evening and I didn't have any difficulties in helping him drown his sorrows in several mugs of ale." Jack frowned. "Thing is, I don't think that Whitley's meeting tonight had anything to do with matters of the heart. He didn't give the impression of a man in the throes of thwarted pa.s.sion. I could be wrong, but there was a note in his voice..." He shrugged. "Probably my imagination. At any rate, learning that I was your cousin, the major seemed quite interested in you, I might add."

Marcus growled, "Impudent busybody."

"He is that," Jack agreed. "Whether he stole the memorandum or not, I discovered that I don't care overmuch for Major Whitley. He is a bl.u.s.tering bully and a braggart, as well as an impudent busybody." He shot Marcus a look. "I'd take d.a.m.n care to keep Mrs. Manning well away from him; old friendship or not, he's not a fellow I'd want any wife of mine to know." His lips thinned. "Any woman for that matter. Fellow's a d.a.m.ned libertine, the kind that seduces housemaids and boasts of his conquests. Don't like him."

Marcus frowned. "You and I share the same opinion of him, and I wonder what Hugh was at, allowing a bounder like Whitley to run tame through his house-which, from what Isabel had indicated, is precisely what happened."

"Your betrothed seems to be surrounded by unsavory characters," Jack observed idly.

Marcus sent him a narrow look. "And what precisely do you mean by that?"

"The major," Jack said, "wasn't the only new friend I made tonight. Whitley and I were drinking at a table by ourselves when another gentleman came up and joined us. Just returned from London this afternoon. Fellow's name is Garrett Manning, lives at a place called Holcombe Manor, claims it is not far from Manning Court. Says he's Lord Manning's nephew. That true?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Marcus sighed. "Garrett is not a bad man but he is a profligate womanizer and a reckless gambler-and believe me, Lord Manning gives thanks daily that it is his own grandson who will inherit the t.i.tle and not his rakeh.e.l.l nephew." Marcus half smiled. "Nearly everyone is of the opinion that, should Garrett inherit the estate and t.i.tle, he would immediately turn Manning Court into a gaming den and brothel." Marcus's brow furrowed. "I am surprised that he left London at the height of the Season, though. I wonder why?"

"Your engagement," Jack said, "is apparently the reason for his return. I couldn't decide whether the engagement was agreeable to Manning or not, but the news certainly brought him hotfoot home from the city." He glanced at Marcus. "I wonder why your engagement to Mrs. Manning interests him so much? It should make no difference to him."

Marcus stared ahead into the darkness. "Hugh did well during his years in India, ama.s.sing a respectable fortune, and Isabel is an heiress in her own right-not counting the fact that her father-in-law dotes on her and would do anything for her. It is possible that Garrett had his eye on Isabel's fortune and planned one day, when it suited him, to court her. Since she rarely goes to London and is considered on the shelf, he probably a.s.sumed that she was his for the taking-when he got around to it."

Jack sent him a look. "He didn't, uh, consider you compet.i.tion?"

Marcus grinned. "No, I'm sure he didn't. My fiancee and I have a rather tempestuous history and I am the last man Garrett would expect Isabel to marry."

Jack looked as if he'd like to ask more questions, but the subject was dropped and the two men turned to a discussion of tonight's activities. Arriving at Sherbrook Hall, they left their horses at the stables and walked to the house. Inside, they made their way to Marcus's office.

After poking the dying fire into life, Marcus threw on more wood and poured them each a brandy. They settled themselves before the fireplace, both contemplating the orange and scarlet flames in silence for several seconds.

"Perhaps Whitley does not have the memorandum," Marcus said eventually.

Jack shrugged. "That has already occurred to me, but it is telling that he departed London the very next day after his visit to the Horse Guards for a part of England where smugglers are known to be quite active."

Marcus snorted. "Which, I would remind you, includes nearly half the coast of England. But you are correct: we do have our share of smugglers, although I would have thought that Kent or Suss.e.x would have been better for his purposes."

"I agree, but if he is trying to throw us off the scent, Devonshire, while known to be a smuggler haunt, isn't quite as obvious a location."

Marcus nodded. "And his professed longtime friendship with Mrs. Manning would make the destination seem logical." Silence fell for a few minutes before Marcus asked, "So what is our next step?"

Jack looked disgusted. "I don't know, but if he has the memorandum, he has to have it stashed away somewhere nearby. If he is planning on making a run for French-held territory, he'd want it close at hand. I can't imagine that he'd have left it in London." He cast a considering glance to Marcus. "Are you positive you searched everywhere in his room tonight?"

"Yes, I'm positive," Marcus said dryly. He'd heard the note of doubt in Jack's voice and didn't blame him; if their positions were reversed, he'd be doubtful, too. And would want to inspect Whitley's room himself. Marcus studied Jack and could almost see his brain turning over ways to get inside Whitley's room to make his own search. Wryly, he asked, "You're going to take a look yourself, aren't you?"

Jack had the grace to look guilty. "It isn't that I doubt you...."

"You won't find anything," Marcus said. "And, in the interest of fair play, this time I'll run interference for you with Whitley and keep him at bay while you're busy in his room."

"Thank you," Jack said, grateful that Marcus hadn't cut up rough at having his thoroughness questioned or of having a second search done. Having Marcus keep Whitley distracted while he went through Whitley's things was another boon, but then he recalled the reason Marcus had been the one to search Whitley's room in the first place. "Won't he be suspicious of friendliness from you?" he asked. "You said your only meeting with him was not friendly."

"I said I would run interference," Marcus remarked dryly. "I didn't say I would be friendly."

Aware of Isabel's habits, Marcus was waiting for her just after seven o'clock the next morning on the narrow bridle path that ran between the two properties. As he waited for her, he realized that he knew far too much about her life and habits than the disinterested party he had believed himself to be should have known. It was, he admitted uneasily, as if a part of him, a part buried deep inside and unacknowledged until now, had always been keenly focused on her, always aware of her even as he kept his distance.

Riding a fractious black colt, Isabel came into sight and, thrusting his uncomfortable ruminations away, he urged his horse forward.

Isabel was so busy convincing the young horse she was riding that it would be impolite to unseat her that she wasn't aware of Marcus's approach until the colt stopped and half reared at the sight of another horse. She fought to bring the black under control and, once that was accomplished and the colt was content merely to dance and snort, she sent Marcus a wary glance.

"I'm surprised to see you out and about so early this morning," she said politely, ignoring the jolt of half pleasure, half panic his presence caused.

"You shouldn't be surprised," he said levelly. "I believe we have something to discuss."

She'd lain awake half the night trying to come up with a logical reason for being in Whitley's room but absolutely nothing occurred to her. Dreading the next meeting with Marcus, she had hoped to postpone the confrontation with him for as long as she could and intended to keep well away from him. He had, she thought miserably, just put paid to that frail plan.

She tried to rouse a healthy anger, tried to tell herself that it was none of his business and she didn't have to tell him anything at all, but even anger failed her this morning. The strain of dealing with the threat Whitley represented, the amount of dogged courage it had taken for her to climb into his room, and the terror she experienced when Marcus had found her had all taken their toll. Exhausted from a restless night, frightened of Whitley and what he might do, she felt as helpless as she ever had in her life. Not even in the horrible days after Hugh's death, alone in a foreign country with her very young son dependent upon her to bring them safely home, had she felt so alone and vulnerable. She was, she admitted, at her lowest ebb. And like an avenging G.o.d, Marcus was waiting for answers she could not give...dared not give.

She cast him a quick glance from beneath her lashes, her heart quaking just a little at the sight of those cool gray eyes and taut mouth. She knew that expression of old and she knew that he would not be dissuaded from his chosen path. Her spirits sagged. Until she told him why he had found her in Whitley's rooms he would be relentless in his demand for an explanation. And he deserves an explanation, she admitted fairly...but I have none to give him.

Unaware that Isabel's expression reflected her inner turmoil, Marcus fought against the insidious urge to comfort her, to let matters rest. He knew in his very bones that, whatever her reasons for being in Whitley's room, they were of monumental importance to her and it had only been jealous rage that had prompted his accusation last night. His knowledge of her and some quiet reflection dictated that Isabel and Whitley were not lovers, but she was clearly, desperately unhappy...and frightened. The fright more than anything disturbed him. Isabel could be stubborn, infuriating, and utterly maddening, but she was no coward. He never questioned that unarmed and alone she'd face a pack of ravenous wolves defiant and unafraid, ready to fight to the death. Yet she was frightened now; something, someone had frightened her. Though he tried to hold onto it, the last remnants of his temper faded and a fierce desire to destroy whoever had caused that look in her eyes overrode every other emotion. Except that of comfort, he thought ruefully. At the moment his arms ached to hold her and he wanted to let her know that whatever lay in front of her, she was not alone.

Furious with himself that she could so easily distract him from his purpose, he growled, "I'm waiting, Isabel. Why were you in Whitley's room last night?"

His tone of voice brought her chin up and she said angrily, "May I remind you that I am no longer your ward? Do not speak to me as if I am an erring child."

"I have not," Marcus said, "thought of you as my ward-or a child-for a very long time." He brought his horse alongside the now-quiet colt and touched her lightly on the arm. Softly, he coaxed, "Isabel, sooner or later you're going to have to tell me." When she remained silent, he said, "Sweetheart, whatever it is, it can't be so very bad that together we can't fix it. Surely you have done nothing so shameful that you cannot tell me."

She stared stonily ahead, fighting the urge to burst into silly, feminine tears at the kindness in his voice. d.a.m.n him! Why couldn't he rage and rail at her like any other decent man would have when confronted with the situation he had found last night. But, oh, no, she thought dispiritedly, he had to be understanding, undercutting her defenses and making it so much harder to resist his persistence. She wanted to cast herself on that formidable chest of his and pour out everything, knowing that while he might be shocked and appalled, perhaps even disappointed, he would not abandon her. For a moment, she was comforted by that knowledge, but then she took a deep breath and pushed aside the treacherous emotions that threatened to swamp her. Her jaw firmed. For his own good, she could not involve him any more than he already was, but she also knew that he would not give up until he had at least some of the answers. She half smiled. Stubborn didn't even begin to describe Marcus Sherbrook. He would keep at her until she told him something. Could she tell him why she had been in Whitley's room without creating more problems? Did she dare?

She looked at him, her eyes meeting his. His gaze met hers steadily. It was all a matter of trust, she thought painfully, and there was no one she trusted more than Marcus-even if he was pig-headed stubborn.

Before she could change her mind, she leaned forward and said swiftly, "You must understand: Whitley is no friend of mine. He means me harm."

Something dark and dangerous moved at the back of Marcus's eyes, making Isabel glad that she was not the one who caused that expression. "I figured that part out myself," he said coolly.

"He has something of mine," she blurted out. "I went to his room last night to find it."

"Did you?"

She grimaced. "No, you came climbing in the window before I had been there much more than fifteen minutes and I had to scramble beneath the bed."

He nodded as if her words confirmed something he already knew. "What does he have? And how can it harm you?"

She raised troubled eyes to his. "I don't know," she said miserably. "I don't know what it is or how he intends to use it against me. I only know he has something and he claims that this something is a weapon that could destroy me."

Marcus studied her for a long moment. "Well, then," he said briskly, "we shall just have to take it away from him, won't we?"