It was too much. Just too much to think about.

James had never loved her. Not really.

He wouldn't care about her now. Her means of escape had been an illusion.

Vain girl! Vain, needy, desperate girl! A wife's place is to serve and obey, not to be needed with desperate passion.

James Blayne saw the unnatural hunger in you. He ran. Believe me, Catriona, he ran. Any sane man would. You must learn to cool your passions. You must sublimate that unholy passion of yours.

She had wanted passion. Wanted it desperately.

She hadn't really ever found it, had she?

The emptiness rose up in her, threatening to choke her.

Some people had passion in their lives, didn't they? They had fire. They were allowed to take joy in being alive.

Why was she denied? Why had she always been denied?

She hated her life. She hated herself.

Hated herself!

"I want to die! I want to die!" The words tore up through her throat. "If I have to stay here, I shall kill myself, I swear it!" She heard the rising hysteria in her voice, but she couldn't tamp down her emotion-not now, not lying naked in James' bed. "Do no' let him hurt me. I can no' bear it any longer! Don't let them keep me here, I am a prisoner!"

He lit the lamp and held it to her face and studied her for long moments. "Christ," he said softly.

His calm tone sank through her panic. She clung to that. To his calm, his strength. How like James to be so stoic in the face of her hysteria.

Hysteria.

Oh, how she wished to have never heard the word!

She had lost control of herself. Shown him her worst side.

It couldn't be undone.

He would never want to help her now.

He will run, Catriona. Any sane man would.

James caressed her cheek, ever so gently. "You're not drunk at all. You're drugged."

Then he leapt up from the bed. She heard the bellpull. Heard the rustle of him dressing. Then some time passed and, from the adjoining dressing chamber, she heard him order his valet, Robert, to fetch some strong coffee and to leave it in the dressing chamber and to stay the hell out of the bedchamber and not to allow anyone in.

She laid there in James' whisky-scented bed, tired, drained, defeated. Too weak and limp to move.

Eventually, she heard the door open and close. He had left.

Chapter Five.

With the sound of the door closing still echoing in his ears, James closed his eyes.

His heart hammered his chest wall. Each beat rocked through his whole body, shocks of desire radiating down to where a second heart seemed to be centered in his cock.

God.

He could still taste her mouth.

And her kisses were just as sweet as they had been that evening years ago. Sweeter, for she had thrust her hot little tongue so fervently against his, with an intensity of sensual response he had never, ever experienced before.

The feel of her breasts, soft yet firm, still seemed imprinted on his chest-the feel of the hardened peaks brushing his flesh as she struggled in his hold, their fullness crushing against him. It was as though torrents of blood suddenly rushed into his already throbbing erection, feeding the pulse of that pounding, insistent heart's beat that was lodged there. His flesh pressed urgently against his trousers. He had never been so painfully hard.

In the bed, he had greatly feared he wouldn't be able to subdue Sunny before his baser instincts overcame his self-control. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and so he had administered a spanking.

He opened his eyes and stared at his open palm. He fancied it still tingled with the sharp sting of making contact with that luscious, gorgeous, broad round arse of hers.

Devil take him. He did not like feeling like this. As though he had no control over his own emotions. As though he'd been living in a tempest since the moment he'd seen her again, bent over the roses, glassy-eyed.

Since that moment, he'd also had the uncanny sense that he'd walked into one of those dreadful novels about old castles, ghosts and deadly secrets.

Yes, Freddy was the ghost, but none of the rest of it made much sense. Sunny should be more recovered from the shock of-no, wait, there hadn't even been any shock to Freddy's demise. She had married a dying man.

Her voice had been so full of despair and horror, he had been chilled to his bones. And she appeared to have been drugged so deeply-that too had chilled him.

He walked over to the wardrobe and took out a fresh cravat. He wrapped it about his neck then jerked the crisp cloth into a simple knot. Well, he was going to have some answers. Before sunrise, he would hear the truth about what was happening with Lady Catriona Blayne.

"How dare you storm your way into my bedchamber!"

Aunt Frances shouted the words stridently, yet there was a quiver to her voice and she clutched her elegant claret-colored wrapper to her neck. With her hair in rag curlers, peeking from beneath her lace-trimmed white cap, and her skin unadorned with rice powder, she looked much older than she normally did. Vulnerable.

She sat on her bed, lifted her chin and glowered up at him. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Explain to me exactly what is going on with Catriona."

"Here? Now?" Her voice rang with outrage.

James fixed her with his sternest commander's glare. "Yes, here and right now, tell me everything."

Her eyes widened. Well, he had never before directed such a tone at her. But perhaps it was high time he started doing so. Standing over her, James placed his hand on his hip. "I am waiting."

Anger sparked in her brown eyes. "Now see here, boy, just because you've inherited the title does not give you the right-"

"I have every right. Now I'll have the truth."

The door creaked open. He turned to see Grandmother Blayne enter the bedchamber, dressed in a ruby colored velvet dressing gown. "What's all this banging on doors and shouting voices? It's half-past two in morning!"

Aunt Frances drew her chin up and glowered at him down her elegant narrow nose. "Lord Blayne seeks to know all there is to know about Catriona's condition." She spoke in a regal, dry English accent.

"It's no' a fit discussion for mixed company." Grandmother's voice resounded with indignation.

"I don't care. I will hear it," James said firmly.

Aunt Frances directed her gaze at the old woman. "Leave us."

Grandmother Blayne settled into a wing chair close to the hearth. "The day I take orders from you is the day you'll be calling the undertaker."

Aunt Frances compressed her lips. Then she turned back to James. "Why didn't you ask about all of this at a more civilized hour?"

"Once I heard what Catriona had to say, I didn't care to wait. Such a horrific accusation cannot wait to be answered."

Aunt Frances' eyes seemed to almost bug from their sockets. "You saw Catriona? When? Where?"

He realized his mistake. "Earlier. Before I reached my chamber." The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. "She claims she is being held here against her will. That this physician you've hired to treat her is abusive to her in some fashion."

Aunt Frances narrowed her gaze, then leaped to her feet. As she approached him, James frowned, then continued. "What she said, it did not make complete sense. I'll have the truth from you, now."

"Your face." Aunt Frances reached up.

He jerked back. "What the devil?"

She touched his cheek. "Just have a look at this, Agnes."

Grandmother Blayne gasped loudly.

He leaned away from Aunt Frances' touch. "What about my face?"

"She raked you!"

The scratches.

Christ.

He had forgotten.

Now it was as though he'd left his trousers unfastened, or maybe this was worse than even that. Those feminine nail scrapes were glaring, damning evidence of the intimacy he and Sunny had recently shared.

Yes, worse, definitely worse than being caught with his fall open.

"This-" he pointed at where, now that it had been called to his attention again, his flesh did still sting a bit- "this is...well, it's not-"

His immediate thought had been to blame the scratches on some other woman, but he couldn't say that to his aunt and grandmother. He scowled. "It's not from Catriona."

What else could a gentleman do but lie to save a lady's honor?

"Now don't lie to me, boy," Aunt Frances said. "You didn't have those when you arrived here today."

"I was out for the evening." He deepened his frown for effect. "I don't think I need to explain my-"

He let his voice trail off, hoping they wouldn't require further enlightenment as to what a gentleman's nocturnal jaunts entailed.

Aunt Frances' mouth twisted and she shook her head. "You never could fool me, boy."

She cut her glance to Grandmother Blayne.

"Oh," Grandmother Blayne said, nodding with a grim expression. "Oh, he's seen her, all right. She must have been in a fine form."

Aunt Frances and Grandmother Blayne exchanged another long glance, a certain knowing passing between them. That look turned to something bleaker.

Maybe even despair.

"It's starting again." Frances' voice held a hopeless note.

"At least her taste is improving," Grandmother Blayne said dryly.

"You would jest about this?" Frances asked.

"It's better than crying, eh?"

James looked from woman to woman. "What is this about?"

Aunt Frances frowned. "It is a very delicate matter."

"Delicate? You keep saying that. What the devil do you really mean?"

"Delicate nerves," she said with much dignity.

"Ha! That's no' what they called it in my day," Grandmother Blayne said.

"What did they call it in your day, Grandmother?" James asked.

She gave him a long, hard stare. "You were soft on Catriona."

Her voice carried equal parts accusation and sympathy.

His mouth went dry. Had Grandmother Blayne actually seen his softness toward Catriona?

Had anyone else?

Did Catriona herself guess at what the depth of his affection for her had once been? With that thought, it was as though he had been stripped bare, clean down to his heart. His soul.