Francis chewed her lip, twisting the ends of her shawl in her hands. Her fingers clenched around a ta.s.sel, and she tugged at it so hard that it broke off. The gloating look on Mr White's face had incited her beyond bearing. Robert had left her the ring as his parting gift. She would rather die than let his precious keepsake end in the hands of a cutpurse.

Francis waited, crouching in the shadows, until she thought she heard the sound of snoring. Her joints were stiff when she stood upright again. Moving out of the shadows, she peered into the darkened room. The fire was still blazing in the grate, and she saw Mr White lying, with his eyes closed, in his bed. She trembled at the thought of what she would have to do. She was going to break into the room of a strange gentleman, risking her reputation, even her safety, to steal back her jewel. But Mr White had left her no choice. Francis dug her nails into her palms. She wasn't going to let the Panchamaabhuta go without a fight.

She tugged at the window, which gave with a rasping sound. Did none of the windows have locks in this forsaken inn? Holding her breath, Francis pushed the window up and hoisted herself through it. It was a struggle, but years of arduous travel had put a fair amount of strength in her wiry arms. She lowered herself to the floor. She had done it. She was actually inside.

The crackling fire shed a dim light around the room. She darted an anxious glance at the man on the bed, wondering if all her noise had woken him. All she heard was the steady sound of snoring. Chuckling to herself, she crept towards him, imagining his look of chagrin when he woke and discovered his booty was gone. He lay under a white coverlet, and she looked him over with cautious interest. In sleep, he looked more like a boy than a man. The strong planes of his face had relaxed. His tousled blond hair gave him an innocent look. Mr White stirred, muttering to himself. Francis knew she had to act now, and quickly.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she tugged down his coverlet to reveal his right hand. She was trembling when she reached out for the ring. He stirred, moving his hand out of reach. With a deep breath, Francis seized it in hers. His fingers were warm and the hair on the back of his hands felt rough against her palm. A flutter ran through her at the contact. Francis pulled at the ruby, and then sucked in her breath. The Panchamaabhuta seemed to be glued to Mr White's index finger. She would have to use all her strength to take it off. Little gooseb.u.mps stood out on Francis' arms. The smallest touch or sound might waken him. She darted a glance at Mr White's face, but his expression was as peaceful as before. Francis curled her nails around the square-cut ruby, trying to advance it towards the tip of his finger. Suddenly, Mr White turned his head. His catlike eyes, awake and fiery, stared into hers.

"So you've come back for more." Throwing off his bedclothes, he dived for her.

Francis scampered away with a frightened squeak. Moving with a speed born of sheer terror, she raced to the window.

He reached it at the same time. Blocking her escape, he seized her wrist in a firm clasp. "We have a score to settle, you and I." He loomed over her, and Francis stared at his hairy chest. He was standing before her, naked as G.o.d made him.

Francis' heart seemed to be jumping out of her bosom, but she was still able to think. Bringing her foot up, she came down with all her weight, crushing his bare toes beneath her boot. He let go of her with an agonized grunt. She leaped to the window, and pushed up on the pane of gla.s.s. As she started to hoist herself up, strong arms seized her from behind. She kicked at him, trying to free herself, but an irresistible force pulled her down to the floor. Francis writhed, kicking and panting, as they rolled across the floor. She landed on top and scratched viciously at his face. He cursed and slapped her. Francis hardly felt the stinging pain on her cheek. Her heart was pounding, and a surge of fierce triumph shot through her. After two years of slow, burning rage at Robert's death, now she had a human target to wreak her vengeance on. It wasn't some nameless French soldier who had taken Robert from her. It was Mr White, who had violated her bond with her husband by stealing the ring.

"You b.l.o.o.d.y thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" She hammered blows at his face. "How dare you? You miserable, mercenary wretch!" This time, her nail nicked the corner of his eye, drawing blood.

Cursing, he seized her wrists together in one hand, gripping her so hard that she cried out in pain. She wriggled, but he held her arms fast and pinned her writhing body against his chest with his other hand.

"Let me go!"

His grip tightened on her. Francis panted against his naked chest, feeling a hard b.u.t.ton press into her cheek. Turning her head, she bit viciously into his nipple.

He gasped, and then seized her in an iron grip. A punishing hand pushed her head down, burying her face in his warm, muscular shoulder. Francis couldn't move. She realized with a sinking feeling that she was in his power. She went limp against him, as the truth sank in. He wasn't a French soldier; he was a common thief in a roadside inn. Even if she got the Panchamaabhuta back, Robert was lost for ever. Exhausted, she collapsed on to Mr White. Immediately, the painful pressure eased. He tilted her chin up, so that his luminous eyes bored into hers.

"You fight like a Bengal tiger," he said. To her surprise, there was a chuckle in his voice.

"Give me my ruby," Francis said.

"If you want it, you'll have to give me something in return." He gave her a hot look.

Francis was suddenly aware that although she was wearing a shawl over her nightgown, she had nothing on underneath. She could feel the heat of his limbs coiled beneath hers.

"What do you want?" she asked.

He flicked his hand at her, showing off the ruby. "I'm not asking for much. Just one kiss, willingly given." His smouldering gaze raked her, and Francis realized that the position he held her in, sprawled on top of him, had been deliberate. He had let her take the superior position, giving him access to the most vulnerable parts of her.

"Why should I trust you?"

His lips stretched in a devilish grin. "I wouldn't, if I were you." He moved so she could feel his breath against her cheek, ruffling her hair. The gentle caress made her shiver.

He must have felt it, for he chuckled again. The low, purring sound, so close to her ear, only added to her giddy sense of danger.

"You're actually enjoying this." She glared at him.

In answer, he pushed down her hips, shifting her until she felt his erection press between her thighs. Trembling with a mixture of arousal and fear, Francis sat motionless astride him. His hungry jade eyes bored into hers with hypnotizing effect. Some part of her began to give in to his silent invitation, and then she forced herself to look away. She struggled to lift herself off his body, but he only let her move so far away before he pulled her astride him again. Their rocking motion, as she wriggled back and forth against his erection was highly arousing. Francis felt a betraying moisture dampen her nightgown, even as she struggled to get away. This time, when he thrust her down on top of him, he nipped at her ear, and then sucked her ear lobe into his mouth. It sent a tingle straight to her belly. Panting, Francis scratched his naked chest. He gave a deep moan. Then his mouth was on hers, fierce and hot. He plunged his tongue inside, sending currents of giddying sensation through her belly. Giving in to the pleasure, Francis surrendered to the hard pressure of his embrace. His heady taste, a mixture of man and brandy, made her senses swim.

He grunted, a low, guttural noise, then tangled his tongue with hers. Unwilling to relinquish all of her power, Francis pulled back and then stabbed her tongue between his lips, ravishing him as he had ravished her. She plundered his mouth until he twisted and panted beneath her. Enjoying her new sense of power, Francis scratched the buds of his nipples with her fingernails. He shuddered and she could feel the urgency of his arousal. He pushed her off him, panting, and then took her by surprise by flipping her on to her back. Before she knew what was happening, he had removed her shawl and then he ripped her nightgown, exposing her round, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the cold. She gasped, and her nipples puckered in the slap of frigid air. He knelt over her, and she felt his hot breath on her sensitive skin.

"Say yes." His voice was harsh against her ear.

Francis nodded, and he just barely touched her nipple with the tip of his tongue. She whimpered, but he hovered over her, teasing.

"I want to hear the words."

The flickering movement of his warm breath against her skin made her wild. "Yes," she whispered.

He lifted her up into him so that his knee was pressed into her groin. Francis gave a choked cry and dug her nails into his shoulders. Supporting her in his arms, he buried his face in her bosom. She moaned as he caressed her soft flesh with the fan of his cropped hair. Then, with a hungry look, he took one of her nipples into his mouth.

Francis cried out. He suckled her, his tongue circling the tight bud. She whimpered and moaned, waves of intense pleasure engulfing her. His tongue was warm and its teasing pressure sent shock waves to her core. Quivering, Francis tossed her head from side to side, giving in to the white-hot sensations building in her groin. The fire exploded and she bucked against him, screaming.

"Oh, G.o.d, yes, please. Oh, G.o.d," she moaned. Her s.e.x contracted against his knee, swamping her in blinding volleys of sensation. Then she collapsed, panting, against him.

"The name's Jared," he murmured in her ear, "but you can call me anything you like."

Francis blinked at him, as if she were waking from a long sleep. Her entire body felt intensely alive. She saw Jared in sharp focus now: the beads of sweat on his upper lip, his leaf-coloured pupils, rimmed by darker green, the tawny hair of his clipped sideburns that framed his face. The intent look in his eyes was almost too much for her to bear. She rested her head against his chest, and the m.u.f.fled sound of his heartbeat tugged at her senses. Absently, she put her hand on her bosom, and felt her heart contract beneath her palm. Something powerful had taken possession of her. Francis opened her mouth to ask him why he had stolen the Panchamaabhuta, but the words came out in a sob.

"Shhh." He stroked her hair, and, at his gentle touch, Francis buried her face in his chest. Sobs racked her as if a dam of pent-up grief had broken open. She wept and wept, feeling a leaden weight in her chest pressing her down, overwhelming her. Little by little, as she cried herself out, the heavy feeling began to fade. For the first time in two years, the black time in Brussels had receded. Francis hiccoughed and coughed, then raised her head, suddenly aware of how much time had pa.s.sed.

"That's better." He had been rocking her gently against his shoulder, his voice a soothing murmur. Francis felt delicious warmth spread through her at his gentle touch. He lifted her in his arms and carried her, a limp armful, to his bed. She collapsed like a rag doll, looking up at him, wide-eyed. Suddenly she felt painfully exposed. Her stolen encounter had borne in on her that her bitter loss in Brussels hadn't happened at all as she had imagined. She had thought that Robert's death had taken everything from her. Instead, she had discovered a pa.s.sionate, living force inside that she had never known until now. Francis straightened up, feeling strangely light and yet filled with wanting. And what she wanted, most of all now, was the stranger who stood naked before her.

For the first time, Francis smiled at him. His answering grin was brilliant even in the semi-darkness. He strode towards her and pulled her nightgown, which had pooled at her waist, down over her feet and threw it on to the floor. Then he took a step backwards. She watched him stand there motionless, his hands on his hips, studying her. His pupils were so dilated that his irises looked black. Francis lay trembling on the bed, waiting for him to come to her. But he stayed still.

She felt a surge of anxiety. She had never felt such raw desire for a man before. The carnal need to taste his hot mouth, to feel him deep inside her, was overwhelming. What if he didn't feel the same way? "Jared." She held out her hand.

He didn't move. Francis frowned and sat up against the pillows, covering herself with her crossed arms.

"No, don't," he said in a husky voice. "Let me look at you." His heated gaze a.s.suaged a little of her uncertainty. He took a branch of candles to the fire, lit them, and then placed the light on the table next to the bed. He moved to stand at the foot of the bed. "Let me look at you," he repeated, his voice harsh with command.

As if under a spell, Francis let her arms fall to her side, and then she relaxed against the coverlet, exposing her naked body to him.

He made a low, rumbling noise in his throat. "Put your arms behind your head."

She did as he commanded, aware that she was thrusting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s forwards for his hungry gaze.

Jared licked his lips. The question of whether he wanted her was more than answered by the angle of his rigid s.e.x, jutting out from his body. "For ten years I've been away from England, keeping company with women different from my kind. You are more beautiful than I could have imagined."

His heated examination of her sent little shivers travelling up and down her spine. She knew that her arms and legs were too thin, but somehow he found her beautiful. The realization sent a fluttering sensation into her core. "Come."

He didn't move. "This is too good to be true," he murmured, a rapt look in his eyes. He seemed to devour every bit of her white skin and long, wheat-coloured hair. Francis felt a stirring of pride at his evident admiration of her slender body. His eyes lingered on her flat belly, and the pink tips of her nipples, which jutted in response to the cold air. His possessive gaze was only feeding the flames of her impatience. He licked his lips again, and she realized he was examining the golden patch of curls above her s.e.x. Inspired with a naughty idea, Francis spread her legs apart. He made a low, guttural noise in his throat. Encouraged, Francis raised a hand to her breast and traced lazy circles around her nipple. He sucked in his breath. She let her other hand drift down between her legs. Fixing him with a wanton look, she traced her folds with one fingertip.

Jared surged forwards, as if he could no longer contain himself. Climbing on to the bed, he lowered himself on top of her and entered her in one thrust. They both cried out when he sank into her. Francis thrashed beneath him, meeting his every thrust with fierce energy. He possessed her. But the more she surrendered to the sweet invasion, the more pleasure she felt. The warmth of his mouth, the fullness inside her, took her to a state entirely out of herself. His fingers, teasing her at the place of their joining, sent waves of heat through her. He stiffened, increasing his movements, and she felt the tingling sensation of a violent climax approaching. She arched up, lifting her hips to take him deeper inside her, and then she shattered against him with a breathless sob. He bit into her shoulder, m.u.f.fling the hoa.r.s.e sound of his own release.

He collapsed on top of her. Francis held on to him for dear life, hugging him so close that she could hardly breathe. Her nails dug into his back, as she felt his heavy weight squeeze the air out of her lungs. She couldn't bear to let go of him, of the radiant sense of pleasure and release Jared had given her. He claimed her mouth in a fierce kiss, and then rolled off on to his side. He pulled her into his chest, and Francis rested her cheek against the soft mat of curls on his chest. It felt strangely, terrifyingly right, lying in his arms. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she sighed at his soothing touch. Soon she fell into a deep sleep.

Francis was aware of an elbow digging into her side. She winced, and tried to push it away. A loud snore resonated in her ears. Her eyes blinked open to find the early morning light streaming through the bare window. Jared was tangled in the coverlet, asleep, his back to her. She looked in admiration at the taut muscles of his back. Feeling rather shy, she traced her fingers along his smooth, golden skin. It was warm and silky to the touch. She felt a stir of desire at the sight of his naked body, lying so temptingly close to her. She was free of shame about the unexpected night she had spent with Jared. Making love to him had been entirely different to her decorous couplings with her husband. She had discovered some hidden part of herself, pa.s.sionate and alive, which made her see everything in a different light. Francis had discovered that she had invested all that had been good of herself in Robert, and believed that it had died with him. Now, she seemed to have taken some of it back. Looking at her lover's sleeping form, she spied the dull red glow of the Panchamaabhuta on his finger.

Francis wriggled out of bed and stood up, careful not to make any noise. Jared's long, muscular limbs were intertwined with the white coverlet, and, in her fancy, he resembled a sculpture of Apollo. His arm was crossed over his chest, elevating the ruby into a ray of morning light. Francis knew her only chance to steal it back was while Jared was defenceless in sleep. His body was limp, his chest rising and falling with the sounds of his hearty snores. She bent over him. "Jared?" she murmured in his ear, testing him.

He didn't move. His breathing was deep and regular.

Holding her breath, Francis took his hand in hers. This time the ring gave when she tugged it. Her heart was pounding in her chest when she slid the Panchamaabhuta off his finger. Slipping it on, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up her woollen shawl and then struggled into her boots. The window groaned when she eased it open, and Jared stirred. Francis waited, her heart in her mouth, but he didn't move. The sonorous sound of his snoring began again. Francis clambered through the window and hurried across the balcony to her room. She dressed in frantic haste and then ran down the stairs. Collaring the innkeeper Francis paid for her room, looking over her shoulder all the while. Her fellow travellers from the stagecoach had already gathered on the front step.

Francis ran out to them. She found the burly farmer with the woollen vest who had sat next to her in the coach the day before. He was shifting from foot to foot, balancing two great baskets of apples on his meaty hips. "How long until the coach comes?" Francis asked. "It's just on for seven. It should be any minute now," he said, creasing his round face into a friendly smile.

"If it ever comes at all. Look over there," said the slender curate, pulling a long face.

The driver was riding towards them on one of the horses from the carriage.

"That's not a good sign," the farmer murmured. The coachman pulled his horse up in front of them and said, "Look here, now. I've just spoken to the carter, and the wheel is split more badly then he thought. It's going to have to be replaced, and that won't be until tomorrow."

An angry babble broke out from the a.s.sembled travellers. Francis shot a nervous glance around her. At any moment now, Jared might wake up. What was she going to do?

She confronted the coachman. "You can't just leave us stranded here!"

He looked down his nose at her. "You'll have to hire a convenience yourself, or spend another night at the inn. The coach isn't going anywhere today."

Francis wrung her hands. "What can I do?"

The curate looked as if he had tasted something sour. "There won't be anything in this forsaken spot. I suppose we'll have to walk into Wells proper and see if we can hire a gig or cart or whatever they have on hand." He pulled out his watch fob and shook his head. "The rector was expecting me yesterday. He'll be right put out if I don't show my face this morning."

Francis thought the rector's feelings were nothing to how put out Jared would be when he woke to discover the Panchamaabhuta was gone. The other gentlemen talked over their plans. A few of the travellers elected to stay another night at the Horse and Hounds. But the curate, Mr Pickering, and the farmer, who introduced himself simply as Samuel, decided to walk to Wells in search of a convenience. Francis ran after them, fairly twitching with anxiety. Her fear of what Jared would do if he caught her gave her a burst of strength she hadn't known she had. She ploughed down the winding country path, striding through the long gra.s.ses until she was in the lead of the two other gentlemen.

But by the time they reached Wells, her legs felt like rubber. Panting, she collapsed on to a bench at the Stag Hostelry and ordered a cup of coffee while the two men went to look for a carriage.

Mr Pickering appeared in the doorway just after she had gulped down her hot brew.

"Did you find anything?"

He gave her a disgusted look. "Nothing for a lady to ride in, I'm afraid. The smithy offered a gig that looked to be on its last legs, and in the end we settled for a wagon." Francis went to the doorway, and he waved his hand at a st.u.r.dy-looking four-wheeled vehicle. There was no top to the wagon, and only two seats in front.

"You'd better wait for the stagecoach," Samuel said, lifting up his baskets of apples and heaving them into the back of the cart.

Francis swallowed and shot an apprehensive glance down the road she had come. "I must get to Bath without delay. If you don't mind taking me with you, I will ride in the back."

"Nonsense," Samuel said. "It's a mucky farm wagon."

Francis peered inside. "I see nothing but straw at the bottom," she said.

Samuel shook his head and made for the back of the carriage, but Francis took his arm. "Please," she said rather breathlessly. "I hardly have any money, and I have to get out of town right away. I don't mind." Ignoring Mr Pickering's outraged hiss, Francis clambered up the wooden side of the wagon. The skirt of her dress snagged on the iron fastenings of the carriage and the gentlemen averted their eyes as she tugged it free. Years of travel in all kinds of conditions had inured Francis to superficial proprieties. She squatted down Indian style next to the basket of apples. "I'll keep an eye on your fruit baskets. Likely, if the road is as rough as it was back there, the apples might fall out and get bruised."

The farmer gave her a shrewd look. "Help yourself to a few, if you like. Happen you didn't have time for breakfast this morning."

Mr Pickering pinched his lips together, but apparently he was too much the gentleman to voice his thoughts about Francis' hoydenish behaviour. He climbed into the wagon next to Samuel, who took up the reigns and whipped the phlegmatic horses forwards.

Francis seized one of the rosy apples from the basket and sank her teeth into it. The sweet juice exploded against her tongue. It had now been three days since she had had a solid meal, and her stomach was burning with acid from the cup of coffee she had drunk. She ate every bit of the apple, including the core. Then she leaned her swimming head against the baskets. The gruelling run to Wells, on top of her exertions of the past two days, had left her in a stupor. She closed her eyes, trying to ease the stabbing pain in her head, and then she knew nothing more.

"Miss?" Francis awoke to the sound of an anxious voice. "Miss, can you hear me?" She cracked her eyes open to find a man in livery standing over her. She blinked at him, aware of the sounds of hooves and men's voices. She was lying sprawled in the straw at the bottom of the wagon. She struggled upright, but there was no sign of Samuel or Mr Pickering. The wagon was standing in the stable yard of what looked to be a large inn.

"Where am I?" she asked the liveried man who seemed to be a groom.

"In Bath. Your friends tried to wake you. Eh, you did give them a fright. One of them went to see a rector or somelike, but the other went for a doctor."

"Doctor?" Francis repeated, dazed.

"Samuel asked me to keep watch. Pale as a ghost, you were. I thought for a minute you weren't going to wake up. But that blond fellow who felt your pulse said you was all right."

"Blond fellow?" Francis struggled upright, and winced. There was a cramp in her leg, and her head was throbbing. She ran her hand across her eyes, and then froze. She had missed the cold pressure of the Panchamaabhuta. "My ring!" Francis looked wildly down at her hand. "The ruby! It's gone."

"Well, I'll be jiggered." The groom let out a low whistle. "That gent who felt your pulse must have been cutting a sham."

"He was blond, you said?" Francis whipped around to face the groom. "Was he very tanned?"

"That's right. Looked like a traveller from foreign parts. Dressed like a n.o.b, with buckskins and all."

Francis drew her breath in a hiss. "Where did he go?"

The groom gestured at the inn. "He went in there. Said he was getting himself a bite."

Francis didn't hear the rest. She was running to the doorway of the inn, and then she burst into the dining room, her heart hammering in her chest.

Jared sat at a table by the window, sipping at a mug of ale. He was freshly shaven and he looked disgustingly handsome in a grey silk waistcoat and white linen shirt. A smug smile played over his lips as he leafed through The Times.

Francis clenched her jaw. "I'll serve him trick or tie for this." She charged towards his table. "So!"

At the fierce sound of her voice, Jared's head jerked up. But if he was shocked to see her, he gave no sign. He waved at the bench across from him. "Dinner should be here any moment."

Francis stamped her foot. "I don't give a fig about dinner. I want the ring."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't answer.

"My ring was just stolen and, by a strange coincidence, I find you here!" Francis shot an accusing glance at Jared's right hand, and then froze. The Panchamaabhuta was not on his finger. She looked at his other hand, puzzled, but there was nothing there. Was it possible that she had been mistaken, and some other man had taken her jewel? She looked around the room, but Jared was the only tanned man present. This was not surprising, considering that it was the dead of winter in England. It must be the very reason the groom had remembered Jared so well. The thought made Francis look him up and down suspiciously.

Jared stood up from the bench and moved close to her so that their bodies were almost touching. His masculine scent, mixed with smells of exotic spices, set her pulse racing. He brushed his hip against hers, sending a crackling current between them. "I, too, lost something valuable this morning. When I woke up, I discovered she was gone." There was a sincere note of regret in his baritone voice.

Francis bit her lip. Jared had actually missed her. And the intent look he was giving her now told her that he wanted her still. When he slipped an arm around her waist, she forgot about the ruby. His hypnotic jade eyes and the gentle touch of his hand cupping her cheek made her sway a little on her feet. She reached out to steady herself, resting her palm against his chest.

"You didn't even leave me your name," he murmured in her ear. The low purr of his voice and the heat from his body were stirring Francis into a state of heightened arousal. The pressure of her hand against his chest increased, and she stiffened. There was a small, hard lump beneath her palm. Francis' breath caught, and she darted a glance at her hand. The lump beneath it felt suspiciously like a ring in the inner pocket of Jared's silk waistcoat.

"Come, have dinner with me."

"Very well." Francis forced her lips into a smile. She would play his little game, matching guile with guile. Jared didn't know yet that she had discovered his treachery. She settled herself on the bench across from him. "I won't say no to a hot meal."

"I took the liberty of ordering you some ham. I got the impression last night that you had a taste for it." There was a devilish glint in Jared's eyes.

A portly server bustled over with a plate of hot rolls. Jared thanked the ruddy gentleman and held the basket out to her. "May I tempt you with a roll, Angelica?"